


we're the sparks that never fade

by crucios



Category: One Direction (Band), X Factor RPF
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucios/pseuds/crucios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis rests his chin against his knees and stares up through his eyelashes. “So what’d your shrink say, then? Are you certifiable?” he asks seriously; he’s wearing a beanie hat and a knitted scarf now, and his cheeks and nose are tinged pink with the cold. Harry wants to tell him he looks like winter, but he doesn’t.</p><p>or, a garden state au in which harry doesn't even know what's wrong with him, louis lies a lot, and in the end it doesn't really matter because all they needed was each other</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're the sparks that never fade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiddleyoumust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleyoumust/gifts).



> this was not meant to be this long. basically this is just _everything it was not meant to be_. except the garden state au bit, it was meant to be that. apparently i had so many more words to say than i thought i did, so i’m really sorry if this goes on a bit? blame harry, he has far too many feelings.
> 
> so, so many thanks to _plasticskies_ for putting up with me and my crazy while writing this, for convincing me that it's not too terrible and for being a wonderful beta. and also to _estrella30_ for reading it over and making me feel 110% better about it.

-

Harry wakes up to his phone playing  _The Beatles_  in a horrifically high decibel. It’s not his alarm, because his alarm tone is _A Hard Day’s Night_ and it’s _Here Comes the Sun_ blasting out unrelentingly now—Gemma’s ringtone.

“Hey, Gem,” he answers slowly, his tongue dry with sleep and trying to wrap around the words.

He knows there’s something horribly wrong after approximately two and a half seconds; Gemma’s breathing is erratic and sharp down the line like she’s desperately holding back  _sobs_ , and she doesn’t utter a word. Harry feels his own throat try to close up in fearful response.

“Gem?” he manages, sitting up in bed and fumbling for the lamp on the bedside table—the blackout curtains are drawn because Harry sleeps better in the early afternoon than any other time.

“Harry,” Gemma says eventually; it’s gasping and fraught, and Harry swears his heart actually  _twists_. “Oh god, I don’t know how to do this, Harry.”

Harry shakes his hair out of his face and presses his free hand to his temple. “Gem, you’re  _scaring_  me.”

“It’s mum, she—” Gemma stops, taking a shuddering breath, and Harry feels his chest tighten a bit more and his airway block up because everything about this indicates that this sentence isn’t going to end with anything  _good_. “Harry, she got in a car accident and she—they did everything they could but she just.”

Harry shakes his head blankly again and again at the phone and he has to stop to remind himself that Gemma can’t see. “No,” he says. “ _No_.”

“She’s not—I mean, she’s alive,” Gemma says like it was an afterthought, and Harry could bloody _kill_ her. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes out a little thank you to whatever merciful higher power might be looking down on them; he thinks there probably isn’t one but he won’t take any chances.

“She’s in a _coma_ ,” Gemma continues, “and you need to come home. I can’t—we need you. She needs you.  _I_  fucking need you.”

“Okay,” Harry says sullenly, his entire body feeling awfully like it’s shutting down. He listens dourly as Gemma uses a lot of terribly complicated sounding medical jargon that he doesn’t understand—he doesn’t think Gemma understands it either, but he leaves her to it, making a little noise of acknowledgement every time he feels it necessary.

When Gemma finally hangs up, Harry stares vacantly at his phone for at least five minutes before picking it back up and calling Nick, clinging too-tightly and desperately hoping he’s not working.

“Aren’t you usually asleep at this hour?” Nick answers after five horribly long and anxious rings. Harry almost wants to cry out of relief. Almost.

Instead he lets out a shaky breath and only manages a slightly helpless, “ _Nick_.”

Nick’s tone changes almost instantly, his voice pressing and worried when he asks, “What’s happened, love?”

“I—my mum’s in a coma,” Harry rushes out too-fast, mostly so he doesn’t have a chance to hear his own words back.

He hears Nick suck in a sharp breath. “I’m calling a cab; I’ll be home in fifteen.”

Harry sighs, shaking his head. “Where  _are_  you?”

“Just a stupid bloody photoshoot—it doesn’t matter, I’ll sack it off.” Harry opens his mouth to protest – a photoshoot’s probably slightly important, right? – but Nick gets there first. “Don’t argue, Styles.”

“Okay,” Harry breathes, slumping back against the pillows and squeezing his eyes shut; he won’t cry, he knows, but he feels horribly like he might just  _stop existing._

“Just don’t go anywhere, and don’t—” Nick stops, but Harry thinks he knows the end of the sentence anyway. “Go put the kettle on or something, eh? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Harry smiles fondly against the phone. “Thanks, you’re—you’re a really good mate, you know.”

“Yep, I’m the  _greatest_ ," Nick replies softly. "Now go, kettle, now. I’ll have coffee.”

Harry hangs up and then does as Nick asks. He takes his time with it, pottering around the kitchen and humming calmly under his breath; he knows that Nick only really asked to give Harry something to  _do_  to stop him from having a panic attack before he gets there.

When Nick does get there, Harry holds out a mug of still-steaming coffee to him with shaking hands and offers a weak smile. Nick frowns and sets his keys down with a clatter on the kitchen counter to take a hold of the mug.

“It’s still hot,” Harry mumbles, then breathes out slowly and tries to focus on his air intake. Nick studies his face for a second and then he’s setting his mug down next to the keys and gathering Harry into his arms without so much as a word.

Nick’s cold against him, the outside winter-chill still crisp and lingering, but Harry closes his eyes and relaxes into it, leaning his weight against Nick and breathing out heavy into his shoulder. “Sorry I pulled you out of work,” he mumbles regretfully.

Nick pulls back a bit and levels him with a  _look_. “Don’t be fucking daft. I hate photoshoots anyway.”

Harry laughs softly and tightens his fingers in Nick’s shirt. “I have to go home,” he says quietly.

“Of course.” Nick nods, and then leans over to pick his coffee back up with his free hand, his other falling warm and comfortingly to Harry’s arm, fingers curling gently around his wrist. “Don’t worry, love, I won’t give your room away while you’re gone.”

Harry smiles dimly and picks up his own mug. “I should hope not.”

Nick drags him through to the living room and sits Harry down on the sofa, flicking the telly on and leaving it on some obscure cooking channel they had been watching the night before. He disappears off into the hall momentarily and Harry sinks down into the cushions, closing his eyes and trying to fade into the dark for a little while.

When Nick returns, he’s holding his laptop in one hand and a blanket in the other. “Here,” he says, throwing Harry the blanket. “Think the heating’s on the blink again.”

Harry wraps the blanket around him as Nick settles down next to him, balancing the laptop on the arm of the sofa.

“What’re you doing?” Harry asks, lying back against Nick’s legs and closing his eyes again.

Nick furrows his eyebrows in concentration at the laptop screen. “Booking you a train home.”

Harry wants to argue, tell Nick  _no_ , he can completely pay for it himself. But the truth is, he really can’t – he still hasn’t paid his phonebill and most of his money went on recording a stupid bloody _EP_  – and he’s far too exhausted to argue anyway.

Nick runs his free hand absently through Harry’s hair and says, “Do you want me to come with?”

Harry cracks an eye open and shakes his head forcefully at him. “No, ‘s okay. I’ll be alright.”

Nick frowns down at him, eyes worried at the corners. “You sure?” he asks. “I don’t mind, you know.”

“Shut up, Nick,” Harry mumbles, opening his eyes properly just so he can roll them, “you have the nation to entertain every morning. I’ll be fine, honestly.”

“I can get Coxy to cover,” Nick offers. “Or maybe you could ask Pix to go with you. She would.”

Harry smiles a little; he’s lucky, he thinks, that his friends are kind of lovely. “I’ll be  _fine_ ,” he says again.

Nick huffs and relents. “Okay, just one seat then. I’m putting you in First Class, there’s more leg room than the bollocks you get in standard. Much better for sleeping in, too.”

Harry listens to Nick ramble for a while; he argues with himself over what time train Harry is realistically going to be able to catch, and then argues with the  _website_  when it refuses to co-operate, sending Harry into a fit of quiet, hysterical giggles.

Eventually Nick looks down, exasperated, and says, “Just sleep, love, I’ll sort it.”

So Harry does.

-

Nick and Caroline see him off at the station, hugging him tight and making him promise to keep them well informed.

“And if you need me or anything, call or something, yeah? I’ll get on a train if I have to,” Nick says, rubbing his thumb gently over Harry’s cheek. Harry nods into his touch.

“Likewise,” Caroline puts in, kissing Harry on the cheek. “Except the getting on a train bit; you know, work and that.” She looks sort of regretful, and Harry wants to hug her.

“If it were any other time of the year, she would,” Nick says, smirking, “only ever has a job when the sodding X-Factor’s on.”

Caroline narrows her eyes and purses her lips and then slaps Nick gently on the head. “Such a  _twat_.”

Harry rolls his eyes at the two of them, because they’re ridiculous and he still doesn’t quite know how they ended up being two of his favourite people in the whole world. He hugs them both tightly and then Caroline fusses for another full five minutes before letting Harry go, and only because the train guard is blowing the whistle and signalling his train to  _leave_.

When he’s on, Harry leans out of the door-window and lamely says, “Love you both,” then adds a quick, “I’ll text you later.” He watches them sadly until he can’t see them anymore and then makes his way slowly through the First Class carriage to his seat.

It’s mid-afternoon and already Harry feels exhausted to the bone; his seat is a window one and he smiles a bit at the fact that Nick remembered, and then sinks into it tiredly, resting his cheek against the cool glass.

He stares blankly out of the train window for the first half an hour and watches, expressionless, as the frosty farmland passes. It all looks very much the same, one small reel of film playing over and over again on a loop like in the cartoons he used to watch as a kid or something; he thinks that all it really needs is a brightly-coloured cartoon character running along with a dust cloud behind him and it wouldn’t be that far off.

Eventually, Harry closes his eyes to it and shuts off his brain; he sleeps the rest of the journey away—Nick was right, First Class  _is_  much better for sleeping in.

-

There’s no one waiting to meet Harry at the train station when he arrives in Manchester. Gemma had offered – _insisted_  almost – but Harry had been awfully quick to shoot her down; he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to be whisked straight off to the hospital without a moment to breathe. Hospitals are  _miserable_  and he doesn’t want another reason to feel miserable just yet; his mum’s not going anywhere, after all.

He calls Gemma instead. “I’m here,” he says when she answers.

“Oh good,” Gemma replies tiredly, relief heavy in her voice. There’s a brief moment of silence down the line which Harry uses to try and find his way out of the station – it’s really been a silly-long time since he’s been here, he thinks – before Gemma says carefully, “You sure you don’t want to see her today?”

Harry stops just as he reaches the exit and breathes. “I don’t think I can—not yet.”

Gemma makes a noise of resignation. “Okay,” she says, “maybe tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, though he thinks even that might be too soon. He doesn’t say as much though.

“I know you don’t want to stay at home –  _the house_  – but you do have somewhere to stay, don’t you?”

“I—yeah, of course,” Harry lies, a little too fast maybe but Gemma doesn’t say anything if she notices. Honestly, Harry hadn’t given a whole lot of thought to where he’d stay; Nick had assumed he’d stay at home and Harry was perfectly content letting him. He knows he could have asked Nick for some money for a cheap B&B, or he could have asked Caroline, or  _anyone_  really—but he’s not exactly fond of owing out money. He can just use his savings.

“Just with some friends,” he adds confidently for effect. He sucks in a sharp breath – hopes she’ll buy it – and wanders outside of the station, the cold November air a slap to his cheeks.

“Okay,” Gemma says eventually, and Harry lets out a breath. “Don’t forget to take your meds, yeah? Change of routine and that.”

“Oh,” Harry says. There’s a taxi queue across the road, so he crosses and joins it, the distraction buying him a little time until he manages, “I sort of left them at home?”

“ _What_?”

“I don’t  _want_  my meds, Gem,” he replies shortly, then sighs and turns away from the scrutinizing eyes of an evidently Judgemental Lady next to him in the queue.

He hasn’t taken his meds since the morning before Gemma called; he wouldn’t even call it a conscious decision really, he just sort of  _stopped_. He thinks he might be shaking a bit from it but he’s about 90% sure that not-taking them can’t possibly be as bad as  _taking_  them. He’s so bloody tired of feeling nothing that he imagines a truckload of  _emotion_  would be less exhausting at this point.

“You can’t make that decision, Harry,” Gemma argues. Harry winces a bit at the growing anger in her voice.

He huffs and drags his bag along the floor as the queue moves. “I fired my psychiatrist so I think that makes it my decision by default, actually?” he answers probably a little bit condescendingly, but he’s tired and cold and he just wants to go home and hide under the covers until all the shit stops, so he’s not sure he cares.

“Fine,” Gemma says exasperatedly, and Harry can hear the angry clanging of plates in the background. “Fine, don’t take your meds, but at least find another fucking shrink, yeah? In fact—in fact I’ll give mine a call. She loves me, she’ll probably see you.”

Harry frowns, and then he’s nudged hard by the Judgemental Lady next to him, who seems to be angrily telling him, “You’re front of the queue, lad.  _Get in the taxi_.”

“Uh, isn’t that a bit weird?” he asks Gemma distractedly, fumbling for the taxi door and throwing his bag in and following it. He presses his phone to his chest momentarily to give the taxi driver the name of a pub –  _The Old Boat_ , it’s something of a safe-haven and the only place Harry can even  _think_  of – and then puts it back to his ear and says, “I mean, is it not sort of weird having the same one?”

Gemma laughs a little bit; it’s  _nice_ , Harry thinks, he’d almost forgotten what it sounded like. “Don’t worry, I won’t interrogate and torture her for your secrets.”

“You know all my secrets anyway,” Harry mumbles distantly, staring out of the window at the unmistakable sights of  _Manchester_ ; his chest aches a little at how  _un_ familiar it all feels now, and he realises sourly that he hadn’t even missed it at all.

He misses London; he misses Nick and Caroline and Aimee and Olly and Pixie, and  _everyone_. He knows Nick’s parents live nearby, maybe he could ask Nick to visit one weekend, if only to stop Harry from completely losing his fucking marbles.

“Well, then there you go,” Gemma says softly. “At least see her, please? For me?”

Harry sulks a bit at that, because it’s completely not fair; Gemma’s far too aware that there’s very little he _wouldn’t_  do for her. “Okay, fine” he huffs, “I’ll see her.”

“Good,” Gemma says happily.

“Yeah, look, I gotta go, I’m in a taxi,” Harry says quickly. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

“I should hope so,” she answers, then: “Love you,” and hangs up.

Harry mutters a, “Love you, too,” to the silence and then pockets his phone as the taxi pulls to a slow stop outside of the pub.

-

“Harry?” someone says behind him just as he’s setting his pint down on one of the corner tables in the pub.

Harry frowns and decides to ignore it; there’re a lot of Harrys in the world. He pulls out his phone to shoot off a couple of texts to Nick and Caroline and then the someone says it  _again_ , and Harry’s reasonably sure he recognises that voice – that  _accent_  – and spins around curiously.

He stares a bit and then belatedly says, “ _Niall_?”

Niall grins, and it’s the same as it always was: a bit like staring into the sun, Harry thinks. His hair is vaguely different: less blonde and more styled, but he looks exactly the same otherwise. Harry’s not sure why he expected him not to.

He smiles back and then Niall’s leaning forward into his space and pulling him into a tight, uncomfortably-angled hug, knocking the pint glass a little so some of the beer sloshes over the sides—Niall doesn’t seem to notice.

“Jesus,” Niall exclaims after a moment, pulling away, “been a while like, mate. Heard you’ve been partying with celebs and that. What’re you doing home?”

“Nick’d be happy you called him a celebrity,” Harry says blankly. He stares at the floor for a moment before deciding to just get it out all in one breath. “My mum’s in a coma.”

Niall opens his mouth and closes it again, and his eyes widen and get all sad and  _pitying_ , and that’s the last thing Harry wants honestly. “Shit,” Niall murmurs, and hugs Harry again. “Sorry. You alright, mate?”

Harry shrugs, sinking further back into the chair; it’s lumpy and uncomfortable as it ever was, and Harry really doesn’t understand what kind of personal vendetta pubs hold against  _comfy chairs_. “Well, you know, not really,” he says, shrugging.

Niall nods like he understands; he doesn’t, but Harry’s nice enough to not point that out or anything. “Yeah, shit, ’course not,” he says, resting his hand against Harry’s shoulder. “Here, I’ll get you another pint, on the house. I work here now.”

Niall’s smile when Harry looks up at him is warm and  _proud,_  like he’s accomplished something wonderful; Harry supposes he actually  _has_  though. They all used to talk about  _running_  this place one day and calling it something really ridiculous – Liam had suggested  _The Purple Turtle_  – and having lock-ins every other Friday, and themed parties with live bands. Harry still thinks about it sometimes.

“You allowed to do that?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow sneakily.

Niall just laughs and shrugs, which is good enough really, Harry thinks. He comes back with two pints and a packet of crisps and plonks himself down next to Harry, opening up the packet of crisps.

“Clocked off early,” he says around a mouthful. “Zayn’s picking me up in about an hour though.”

“You’re still with Zayn?” Harry asks, not surprised, just… happy.

Niall grins. “Yeah! Five years, what the fuck, eh?” he says, before shoving another handful of crisps in his mouth; Harry wants to question whether they even touch the sides.

Instead he says, “That’s  _great_.”

Niall nods, half-smiling and half-biting his lip nervously, and Harry wonders briefly whether it really  _is_  great. He hopes he’s just reading it a bit wrong though; they’ve been together since they were about  _sixteen_ —since Niall made Zayn a playlist to get him through his Art exam and Zayn leaned right across the lunch table and kissed him in front of probably half the school.

Harry sort of wants to ask about Liam, too, but his mouth can’t quite form the words.

“So, how’s working your way up the ladder to take over this place going then?” he asks instead, stretching his neck to look around properly—it’s all the same, down to the salt and pepper shakers.

Niall beams like he’s just so fucking  _delighted_  that Harry remembers. “Getting there,” he says happily. “Our names’ll be above the door in no time, mate.”

Harry shifts uncomfortably; he’s not all that sure his name really deserves to go up there after his two years of absence.

“Anyway, where you staying at?” Niall asks, scrunching up the crisp packet and tossing it to the middle of the table.

“Dunno.” Harry shrugs nonchalantly and then downs some of his pint. “Like, there’s home but—but mum’s not there, you know? ‘S not really  _home_ , kind of thing.”

Niall frowns a little then says, “Just stay with us.”

“With you,” Harry replies dumbly.

His face must be a bit blank and  _confused_  because Niall rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, mate,  _with us_. We’ve got a spare room.”

Niall looks like he’s definitely not going to take  _no_  for an answer, and honestly, Harry’s other options aren’t nearly half as appealing so he says, “Okay, yeah, if you’re sure?”

Niall’s face breaks out into a grin. “’Bout time we have that Fifa rematch anyway. It’s only been, what, two fuckin’ years?”

“Ha. Didn’t I slaughter you last time?” Harry asks, smirking a little—he distinctly remembers winning 6-0 actually.

Niall pushes at Harry’s shoulder and mumbles a, “Shut up,” and then digs in his pocket and hands him a tenner. “Go get us another pint.”

Niall doesn’t mention Liam in the time it takes for Zayn to pick them up, so Harry doesn’t either.

-

Zayn rolls down the car window and stares out at Harry a little bewildered. Harry sort of wants to take a picture of his expression, because it’s  _hilarious_.

“Look who I found!” Niall says gleefully, dragging Harry towards the car by his sleeve.

Zayn looks a lot like he’s not really sure what on Earth to say; there’s a long moment of horrifyingly awkward silence, and Harry feels small and scrutinized all of a sudden. He thinks he probably should have known that Zayn would be weird about this, though. It was easy with Niall because Niall never really gets cross with  _anyone_ , even if they do up and leave for two bloody years.

Harry averts his eyes and stares at the black tarmac like it holds all of the answers; the thing is, Harry was pretty much an  _absolute twat_ , he knows that. He knows that leaving his friends – his  _best_  friends – without saying so much as a goodbye was completely shit, and he doesn’t particularly want them all to forgive him out of pity just because his mum’s in a  _coma_. But at the same time he really sort of does, because he doesn’t know how to function back here if they all  _hate_  him.

He’s pretty sure that makes him a terrible person in some capacity.

Eventually, after seemingly having a silent conversation with Niall using nothing but his eyes and – still perfect – eyebrows, Zayn says, “Long time no fucking see, Styles.”

It’s a little awkward but there’s no bite behind it, and Harry can work with that, he thinks. He smiles at him carefully and Zayn smiles back, so he counts that as win at least.

“Well, are you getting in the car or what? It’s bloody freezing,” Zayn says eventually, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

Niall says, “Come on, then,” and all but herds Harry into the back of the car, chatting animatedly to Zayn about someone called  _Aiden_  and how he dropped exactly  _five glasses_  today and that he thinks he has a thing for the manager, Matt—that or they’re already shagging, Niall’s not sure.

Harry tunes out for a bit, feeling horribly like an outsider now, until Zayn asks out of nowhere, “So, what you doing back home?”, not looking away from the road.

Harry doesn’t really know what to say, so he’s grateful in fucking abundance when Niall pipes in with, “His mum’s in a coma.” He almost breaks into a laugh at how very  _not-tactful_  Niall is about the whole thing.

The car jerks a bit and Zayn says, “ _What_?”

“She was in a car crash,” Niall supplies for him quietly, and then must have another one of his silent conversations with Zayn because the car goes eerily quiet for a moment, the turned-down radio the only sound to be heard. Harry leans his head against the window, closing his eyes tight-shut.

“Shit,” Zayn says eventually, his voice softer, “I’m sorry, Haz.”

Harry really wishes people would stop saying  _sorry_ ; it makes it sound awfully like his mum’s  _dead_ , which she is most definitely not. He cracks an eye open just enough to give Zayn a gratified look, though, and replies tiredly with, “Yeah, me too.”

“Are you staying at home then?” Zayn asks, and Harry frowns and panics because surely Niall  _told_  him he’s offered up their spare room.

Apparently, though, he didn’t.

“I said he could stay with us for a bit,” Niall says softly, reaching over to squeeze Zayn’s arm.

Zayn casts him a quick look, squinting his eyes in a way Harry assumes can only mean  _Why would you do that?!_ in their bizarre silent language. Finally though, after a few wide-eyed expressions from Niall, Zayn says, “We all listened to your EP when you sent it, you know. You sounded wicked good, mate.”

It’s not until Niall looks over his shoulder at Harry and gives him a brief but confident nod that Harry smiles and realises that Zayn has all but said  _yes_ , in his own little way.

“Cheers,” Harry says sincerely, and not just for the compliment. Niall grins and gives him a thumbs-up.

-

It’s kind of lovely being back in Niall and Zayn’s flat; there’s something warm and familiar about it. They’ve changed the paintings on the wall – probably to some more recent of Zayn’s work; they’re colourful and… _hopeful_ , Harry wants to say – and the living room’s been redecorated in red, but mostly it’s just how Harry remembers it.

Zayn shows him to the spare room and says, “Make yourself at home, mate,” and Harry feels a sudden burst of emotion and hugs him tight. Zayn hugs him back, and Harry can’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief.

When he wanders back through to the living room after half-arsedly unpacking his bag – mostly he just moved his shit from his bag to the floor, but that completely counts at unpacking, he’s pretty sure – Niall’s setting up Fifa and Zayn’s smoking by the balcony door; it’s ajar just enough that he can blow the smoke outside.

“Tea or beer?” Niall asks, looking up from the screen.

Harry shrugs. “Whichever.”

“Beer it is, then!” he says with a grin.

Niall returns with three bottles and they all pile onto the sofa, Niall and Zayn ending up sitting a lot on each other, and Harry with his legs stretched out over theirs. They bicker for a while over who’s playing first until Harry just rolls his eyes and says, “You guys go first,” because he’s spent enough of his life with them to know that Niall and Zayn’s bickering can go on a while… and usually ends in a lot of kissing.

Harry mostly doesn’t pay attention to the game. He texts Nick and Caroline that he’s there safe and staying with some friends and that he hasn’t seen his mum yet because he can’t quite face it. Nick texts back:  _It’s soooo boring living alone, how do I live without you? xxx PS. Call if you get crazy_ , and lots of emoticons that Harry can’t even be bothered to figure out. He just rolls his eyes, smiling a bit, and tells him he will.

Caroline just replies with:  _Love you lots xxxxx_

He gets a text from Gemma, too, telling him he has an appointment with her shrink in the morning and that  _you better show up, I swear to god!_ He just grimaces at that one.

Niall goes through to the kitchen to get more beer after the first match and subsequent arguing and make-up kiss – they’re  _sickening_ , really – and Zayn casts Harry careful and worried glances for a while before asking, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Harry doesn’t, there’s not anything to talk  _about_  really—his mum’s in a coma and he doesn’t think talking about it would be particularly useful. “Not really,” he says, and then before he can stop himself, “How’s Liam?”

Zayn’s face twists into a bizarre expression that Harry’s not even sure what to make of. “He’s great,” he says eventually.

Harry quite wants to ask if he could maybe elaborate on that a bit, but then Niall bounds back in with more beer and a packet of Doritos and dip, and exclaims to Zayn, “Right, I demand a rematch, you won unfairly!”

Zayn throws a cushion at him. “Shouldn’t have been texting and playing then, should you?”

Harry just smiles at them; he spends the rest of the night smiling, too. He smiles at all of the stories they both tell even though he’s only paying vague attention; he smiles at their squabbling banter even though it’s giving him a bit of a headache; he even smiles when Niall beats him 4-0 and jumps up from the sofa shouting, “Payback!”

He smiles and smiles and just  _keeps smiling_ , like if he does it enough it will ultimately transition into something _real_  and genuine.

Eventually he has to stop, though, his brain shutting down slowly like clockwork that needs rewinding. He squeezes his eyes shut and just  _stops_ , his cheeks hurting a little from it all.

“You alright, mate?” Niall asks with concern, and Harry opens his eyes to find them both staring at him.

He nods carefully, says, “Yeah, ‘course. I’m fine. Might just turn in for the night,” and yawns for effect.

He  _is_  tired, is the thing, even if it  _is_  only just after nine pm. But it’s not a normal kind of tired; it’s not anything to do with the five beers he’s apparently drunk – if the empty bottles at his feet are anything to go by – either. He wonders if it’s maybe a withdrawal kind of tired—is that a thing that happens?

“You sure?” Niall asks, pausing the game.

“Yeah,” Harry says; he clenches his fingers tightly in the fabric of the sofa for a moment and then pushes himself up. “I’m just knackered.”

Niall smiles understandingly and says, “Night then, just help yourself to tea and stuff in the morning, yeah?” and then adds: “Oh, and you can use my car, too, I’ll still be in bed. I’ll leave the keys in the bowl by the front door. Just have it back by five so I can get to work.”

Harry nods gratefully. “Cheers. And cheers for… having me.”

Zayn considers him carefully for a moment and drops his controller to the floor; he’s up and across the room all in one movement, pulling Harry into his arms and holding tightly onto him.

“Sleep well,” he says softly. Harry tries to relax into it, feeling awkward. But Zayn wraps his arms around, firm and reassuring. “And let us know if you need anything or whatever.”

Harry nods, wordless, and then Zayn squeezes him tight once more before letting him stumble away with a, “G’night,” to the spare room.

He sleeps better than he has in two years.

-

When Harry wakes up in the morning and pads zombie-like through to the kitchen, Batman is standing in front of the fridge. Harry blinks slowly a few times, not entirely convinced that he’s not still  _asleep_  in bed and half-dreaming—or maybe it’s the detox, he hasn’t taken his meds in two days or so or something, right?

“Uh,” Harry says, staring at Batman’s – no, not Batman; he can’t call him  _Batman_ , surely that’s surrendering to insanity? – the man’s back. The man startles backwards and spins around quickly and Harry realises that it’s actually not Batman at all. It’s  _Liam_. Dressed as Batman.

“ _Harry_?” Liam asks dazedly, as if he thinks  _he_  might be dreaming too.

“Your hair’s shorter,” Harry says blankly, his entire brain apparently having wiped itself clean of anything useful.

Liam closes the fridge door with a confused frown and runs a hand over his shaven head. “Oh, yeah. I got a bit bored,” he says, stilted.

Harry stands and stares awkwardly, and—and it’s  _Liam_ ; it’s his best friend in the entire fucking world for god’s sake, it shouldn’t be awkward at all. But Liam’s staring back with a clear uncertainty and his body is leaning forward a bit like he’s not entirely sure whether he  _wants_  to take the step forward to hug Harry or not. Or maybe he wants to  _hit_  him; Harry can’t quite picture that though.

“What are you doing here?” Harry finally settles on.

Liam’s eyes flash with something Harry can’t quite figure out. “I live here,” he says, and Harry thinks  _oh_  and wonders why Zayn and Niall neglected to mention that little bit of  _kind of important_  information.

“What are  _you_  doing here?” Liam asks sharply; there’s a horrible, clawing distance to his tone and Harry can’t even blame him really. He thinks he’d probably be distant too if his best friend had run away to London for two years and not bothered communicating save the odd email once in a while.

Harry sort of forgets sometimes that for all of his niceties and  _I love absolutely everyone_  nature, Liam  _can_  hold a grudge.

Liam used to have a friend called Andy. Harry never really liked him; he doesn’t think  _anyone_  really liked him honestly.  _Liam_  liked him, though, or at least he liked him up until he made a sly and vaguely homophobic remark about Niall and Zayn in the school yard and Liam punched him  _right in the face_. It was probably the single most amazing moment of  _all of high school_ , Harry thinks. Liam was suspended from school for a whole week, and grounded for a year – well, maybe two months, but it  _felt_  like a year. Niall and Zayn crowned him _King of the School_ , though, and Liam never spoke to Andy again, so it all worked out okay in the end.

Harry sighs and says solemnly, “My mum’s in a coma.” It’s still  _weird_. He’s getting used to saying it now, but it makes it all the more terribly real, he thinks,  _telling people_.

“Oh.” Liam’s expression softens quickly, and he stares at Harry for a little while like he’s having some sort of _moral crisis_.

He dithers for a horribly long moment and Harry looks down at his feet, and then all of a sudden Liam’s bridging the gap easily and pulling Harry tight into his arms, and Harry lets out a breath of relief he didn’t know he had been holding onto.

“God. I’m so sorry, Haz,” Liam says quietly, his hands petting gently at Harry’s hair. Harry wishes he could cry, because he wants nothing more than to cry into Liam’s shoulder for a while and just  _let go_. But he can’t.

Instead he breathes slow and deep, and tightens his arms around him. “Niall and Zayn said I could stay for a bit?” he mumbles.

Liam lets him go but keeps his hands resting on his shoulders. “Yeah, yeah, of course you can.”

“Thanks,” Harry breathes, offering Liam a small smile—it’s the best he can do.

“Do you want some tea?” Liam asks, opening the fridge again and getting out the milk. “I’ve got about ten minutes-ish before I have to go to work.”

“Please, yeah,” Harry says, stumbling to the beaten white kitchen table and sinking into one of the matching chairs. “Li, why are you dressed as  _Batman_?”

Liam stops mid-pouring the milk and looks down at himself with a frown. It’s a little bit hilarious really. “Oh, right. I work at ToysRUs! We’re having this superhero week—I bagsied Batman.”

Harry laughs, bright and real, and feels a fondness he thinks he might have forgotten until now. “Glad you’ve not changed, mate.”

-

Harry’s late for his appointment.

He thinks he and Liam must have been talking for a good forty-five minutes before one of them belatedly deemed it necessary to  _check the time_ , so. Harry’s late.

He doesn’t mind so much though; Liam caught him up on his studies and told him that he thinks he might surprise Zayn and Niall with a trip to Disneyland for Christmas—it’s so very  _Liam_  that Harry had to hug him again.

Harry told him various bizarre tales of late-night karaoke with Nick and Caroline, and some of the more hilarious celebrities he’s met, and Liam laughed along. For a second it had felt like no time had passed at all.

When he arrives at the office, Harry gracelessly almost-falls against the reception desk, halting his run too quickly. The receptionist looks mightily unimpressed, her eyes glaring.

“Can I help you?” she asks. Her hair’s tied up in a painfully tight bun and her face is stony, like it froze that way in the bloody wind.

“I’m late,” Harry says breathlessly, and then shakes his head. “I mean, I’m sorry I’m late. I have an appointment with Doctor Kelly?”

The receptionist tuts, her eyebrows remaining two angry lines, and then clicks harshly with her computer mouse before saying shortly, “One moment, please.”

Harry nods a reply and then gasps a bit for his breath back, briefly glancing around.

The waiting room is disconcertingly empty excepting a guy who looks like he must be around Harry’s age. He’s sitting across the far side and bobbing his head along in a rhythm to whatever music he’s playing through his earphones. Harry can’t really see his face – his head bowed down in concentration over his phone – but the pillar box-red of his jeans starkly contrasts with the dirty-white walls, and pillar box-red jeans are a  _his-age_  sort of thing, aren’t they?

“You need to fill out some forms,” the receptionist says, and Harry whips his head back around. She leans over and shuffles briefly through a draw to pull out a battered clipboard, and then attaches a pink paper form before thrusting it  _at his face_. “Do it while you’re waiting.”

Harry stares for a moment then nods another reply, grasping at the clipboard.

“She’s always like that,” the guy in the pillar box-red jeans says loudly when Harry’s moved away from the desk.

Harry jumps a bit at the voice and frowns; he hesitates a moment before making his way slowly between the rows of seats and eventually settles on a – surprisingly squashy and comfortable – blue chair opposite the guy.

“Her husband left her three months ago,” the guy says matter-of-factly. He doesn’t look up, still staring down at his phone.

“Suppose that’d do it,” Harry says for lack of anything else.

The guy nods and then glances up briefly with a small smile, and Harry catches a glimpse of blue eyes. “Yep. Married for fifteen years. Bit of a shame,” he says sadly.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and then says, “I should probably… fill these forms in,” in the vague hope that the guy might leave him be.

“Yeah, ’course,” the guy says. “The pink one’s the worst, mate.” He looks up again, a smile on his face that switches from warm to confused in precisely half a second, and Harry thinks:  _oh no_.

He looks down a bit too quickly and focuses hard on filling in his name and date of birth like they’re things he has to do  _actual thinking_  about. When he chances a quick look back up once he’s written his postcode, the guy is eyeing him curiously; he’s tilting his head a little and his entire face is frowning like he’s trying to figure out who Harry is.

It doesn’t exactly happen a lot – Harry’s not at all  _that_  famous – but it’s happened enough that Harry is able to tell the exact moment when the guy _gets it_.

“You’re Harry Styles,” he exclaims loudly after a moment and takes out an earphone, his bright eyes lighting up through a sort-of-swoopy fringe.

Harry nods resolutely, lowering his pen and staring up at him. “That’s me.”

The guy grins a little blindingly, then in a sort of blink-and-you-miss-it movement he’s standing up and bounding over to the seat next to Harry. He plants himself down and pulls his legs up to rest on the edge of the chair and then extends his hand happily and says, “I’m Louis.”

Harry shakes his hand kindly, thinks it would probably be sort of  _rude_  not to. “Nice to meet you.”

Louis keeps grinning, bright and unyielding. Harry can’t quite figure out whether he finds it entirely creepy or slightly attractive.

“I have your EP, it’s really  _deep_ ,” Louis says conversationally.

“Oh. Thanks,” Harry mutters, lowering his eyes to the floor.

“The song about your dad,” Louis continues, waving his hands about in a way that’s a bit distracting, “I absolutely cried. It was, like, really fucking  _raw_  and stuff, you know? Hit close to home and that—”

Louis stops abruptly when Harry looks back up, and Harry’s not entirely sure what his expression  _is_  but he thinks it must be slightly worrying because Louis looks positively  _stricken_  by it. But it’s—well, no one ever really talks about the subject matter of his songs.

“Wow, I’m really sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable?” Louis asks worriedly. He presses his fingers gently to Harry’s shoulder in what Harry thinks must be an apologetic gesture but it’s mostly just  _odd_. “I can shut up. People tell me I talk too much.”

Harry shakes his head; it  _does_  make him uncomfortable, but it’s strangely _comforting_  too, and he’s not sure what sense that makes—maybe he’ll ask his psychiatrist. “I—no, it’s okay,” he says quietly. “Just, no one’s ever… said that before.”

Louis frowns. “Fuck. I’m totally making you uncomfortable. I’ll just—” he lifts his hand and motions zipping up his mouth, “and let you fill out your forms.”

Harry’s oddly disappointed but he nods all the same and looks back down at his forms, the words swimming back and forth and up and down under his eyes.

He writes in an eerie sort of silence for a while, the scraping of the pen sounding far too loud, until Louis pipes up again with: “What the media did to Caroline Flack for dating you was  _brutal_.”

“What?” Harry asks blankly _._

Louis leans to the side a little and rests his forearm on the arm of their adjoining chairs, staring seriously at Harry. “The age-gap thing. It made me really sad they all made a huge fuss. No one’s allowed to be happy anymore.”

Harry thinks he might be gaping a bit, because Louis looks genuinely upset  _on his behalf_. “Yeah, it was a bit shit,” he manages.

“Is that why you broke up?” Louis asks.

Harry frowns. “Um.”

Louis’ eyes widen. “Shit, sorry,” he says quickly. “My mum reads far too much fucking _Heat Magazine_.”

Harry laughs at that. “No, it’s fine, we’re still friends.”

“Yeah. I saw the pictures of you, with her. And Nick Grimshaw. That’s pretty cool. They must be proper wicked friends to have,” Louis says, tapping his finger on the arm of the chair next to Harry’s hand along to whatever music is still playing from his earphones. “I promise I’m not a stalker or anything, just—”

“ _Heat Magazine_ ,” Harry finishes for him with a grin. Louis grins back; his smile is bright and wide—his entire face lights up with it, and Harry notices little crinkles next to his eyes. It’s a bit difficult to look away.

“Exactly,” Louis says. “So are you recording anymore music soon? Because I’d buy it. You’re really good.”

Harry drags his gaze away and ducks his head down to focus on the forms he really should be filling in. “Thanks,” he mumbles, writing down his unending list of medication. “But no. Just visiting home for a little bit, seeing the family.”

“Oh, cool. So what you here for?” Louis asks, swinging his free earphone around his finger and giving a nod to the waiting room around them. His eyes go hilariously wide as soon as the words are out his mouth though, and Harry has to try not to laugh when Louis says, “Shit, sorry. Again. Bloody hell, I’m such an invasive twat. You can just ignore me if you want.”

Harry shrugs, not sure he minds all that much.

“I’m just getting these, uh, weird dreams? It’s probably nothing,” he says, maybe a bit too casually. Louis gives him a look like he doesn’t completely believe him, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s true in part though, Harry thinks—he does get weird dreams sometimes, they just aren’t really the reason he’s here.

Louis nods, a sort of knowing look in his eyes. “Yeah. I get weird dreams sometimes. Dreamt my mum was a female James Bond the other night.”

“That’s a bit weird,” Harry agrees, fighting down a laugh. He thinks briefly that this might be the most he’s ever properly smiled in a long time, but he’s going to put that down to being off the  _mind-numbing meds_  and not Louis-who-he’s-only-just-met, because that would be slightly mental.

“A bit, yeah. I mean, she does work for MI5 sometimes, in intelligence,” Louis says proudly. “But’s she’s definitely not James Bond.”

Harry clears his throat, not entirely sure what to do with that. “What’re you here for then?”

“Waiting for a friend,” Louis replies quickly.

Harry nods. He can still hear the tinny beat of music from the earphone hanging down from Louis’ jumper so he reaches out and takes a hold of it, stretching it up a bit so he can listen better. “What’re you listening to?” he asks.

“Not you, thankfully. That would’ve been embarrassing,” Louis says, making a face that Harry can only describe as  _ridiculous_.

He laughs a little, and Louis asks, “Do you want to listen?”

Harry looks down at his unfinished forms. “I should probably finish these.”

Louis shrugs, taking the earphone back off Harry and squinting at him a little. “Can you not multitask?” he asks slowly like he thinks Harry’s a child all of a sudden, and then before Harry gets the chance to reply: “I once had to send an email while on a fucking camel ride in Egypt, best multi-tasking I ever did. It’s really quite difficult, riding a camel, did you know?”

Harry doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to say that. “Um.”

“…So, d’you think you could listen and write?” Louis asks a little bit mockingly; he dangles the earphone over the clipboard in Harry’s hands and—well, okay then.

“I could probably do that,” he says, grabbing the earphone from Louis and putting it in his ear.

“Here, you can have the other one too: full music experience!” Louis says and then he leans right across and curls his fingers softly around the back of Harry’s neck, his other hand reaching over to put the other earphone in.

Harry doesn’t move, but he doesn’t feel himself tense all too much either; he’s not entirely great about people touching him, and especially not people he’s only just met, but—but there’s something about Louis that makes Harry trust him.

Louis leans back into his own chair and Harry lets out a breath and listens to the music. He’s not really sure who it is; he thinks he might recognise the voice, but it doesn’t really matter. Louis watches him as he listens; his eyes are lit up and his smile is wide, and Harry thinks it’s all a bit stupid and film-esque honestly—the way Louis’ smiling at him soundtracked by someone singing about being  _in over their head_.

Harry listens for a moment longer and then tugs the earphones out and hands them back over to Louis. “What is it?”

“ _The Fray_ , one of my favourites,” Louis tells him, winding the cord of the earphones around his hand. “I hung out with them backstage once, it was sick.”

Harry nods and says, “They did that  _How to Save A Life_  song, yeah?”

Louis beams. “Yeah, that’s them!”

Harry grins back a little; he’s always a bit lamely heartened by peoples’ enthusiasm for music. ”They’re good.”

“This one’s my favourite though—wait,” Louis says, flicking through his phone. “This one.”

He hands the earphones back over to Harry just as the receptionist barks out, “Harry Styles. Doctor Kelly will see you now,” and then: “Gill’ll see you in five, Louis.”

Louis huffs a bit, and Harry narrows his eyes slightly. “Thought you were waiting for a friend?”

Louis just shrugs and pops an earphone back in.

Harry stands up and hesitates for a minute before saying, “Uh, maybe you can, like, show me the other song later?”

Louis stares up at him for a long moment and then shrugs again and says, “I might wait for you, if I feel like it.”

-

Doctor Kelly – or  _Jan_ as she had insisted approximately fourteen times Harry call her – hadn’t said much really, or at least nothing Harry hadn’t heard before many times and in a variety of different ways. The most input she had was asking if Harry considered coming off his meds  _right for him_ , to which all he did was shrug and say, “Guess we’ll find out.”

Honestly, he’s deeming it all a waste of time, but he’ll go back next week and give her another chance, if only to keep Gemma off his case.

“You waited,” Harry says when he finds Louis sitting on the curb outside of the doctor’s office. He hovers in the doorway for a moment, savouring the warmth.

Louis turns around and smiles up. “I felt like it,” he says, shrugging. “That and my mum got called into work for an hour so I have to wait for her.”

Harry feels his smile drop a bit, which is completely ridiculous, he knows, because Louis wasn’t  _obligated_  to wait for him or anything. “Oh, well. I’m glad. Not, like, that you have to wait, just…” he trails off quietly, standing on the edge of the curb now.

Louis rests his chin against his knees and stares up through his eyelashes. “So what’d your shrink say, then? Are you certifiable?” he asks seriously; he’s wearing a beanie hat and a knitted scarf now, and his cheeks and nose are tinged pink with the cold. Harry wants to tell him he looks like winter, but he doesn’t.

Instead he huffs out a laugh and says, “Yeah, completely.” He tentatively sits down on the curb next to Louis, their shoulders bumping together slightly; the ground is ice cold though, and he very nearly jumps back up. “How is your arse not frozen?”

“It is a bit, actually,” Louis says with a giggle. “My hands too. Hang on—here.”

Louis lifts his hands up from where they’d been curled up by his sides and holds them out to Harry, palms up. Harry doesn’t move, not completely sure what he’s even supposed to be  _doing_ ; he wonders if this is a thing—like a new craze or something. Like Pokémon cards at school or those hand-slapping games that girls would always play, but a lot  _weirder_.

Louis rolls his eyes at him like he  _should_  know, then before Harry can even figure out what’s happening Louis’ leaning forward and  _holding his hands_. He stares down wordlessly and watches as Louis slips his hands into the sleeves of his coat, fingers bitter-cold against Harry’s wrists.

Louis looks at him expectantly. “You put your hands in my sleeves, too,” he says. So Harry does; he’s not exactly sure why he does, but Louis’ a bit of an enigma or something, so probably that’s it.

He pushes his hands slowly up under Louis’ sleeves and Louis grins at him and says, “There. Much warmer.”

Harry thinks he might be staring. “Bit inconvenient, though,” he points out, “now I can’t go anywhere without you.”

“Yeah,” Louis allows, “but maybe that was my plan.”

He curls his fingers tighter around Harry’s wrists, so Harry does the same, then Louis narrows his eyes oddly then _winks_ at him, completely exaggerated, and—and it’s probably the most  _ridiculous_  thing Harry’s ever seen, and Harry lives with Nick bloody Grimshaw.

“This is the part where you offer me a lift home and I offer to repay you in tea,” Louis says seriously. “Or coffee, if that’s your thing. Though I feel you should know that I don’t see this relationship going very far if it is.”

“Uh,” Harry tries slowly, his brain a bit stuck on the  _relationship_  thing.

Louis stares at him impatiently for a long while and Harry thinks:  _oh, right_ , and manages to form enough words to say, “I like tea better. Do you want a lift?”

Louis grins. “I’d  _love_  one.”

Louis fiddles a lot with the settings in the car; he turns the heating up and then turns it back down again; he changes the radio station at least five times; he rifles through the glove compartment, too, and pulls out a Justin Bieber CD, holding it up curiously. “Didn’t peg you for a Belieber,” he says.

Harry laughs, shaking his head and taking the CD off him to put it back away. “It’s my mate Niall’s car. He’s mad on him.”

“Oh, right. Of  _course_ ,” Louis says teasingly, his eyes twinkling a bit. Harry has to remind himself to  _look at the road_.

“Do I go straight on at the roundabout?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, waving his hand distractedly. “Is that a thingy thing for an iPod?” He points to what is apparently a  _thingy thing_  for an iPod and Harry shrugs.

“Yeah, probably,” he says questioningly. He’s not too sure, but it seems like the type of thing Niall would have in his car. Harry’s been meaning to invest in one now that he thinks about it; he takes a brief moment then to achingly miss his own car back in London.

“Do you mind?” Louis asks, but he’s already pulling out his phone and plugging it in so Harry’s nodding  _go ahead_  is a bit obsolete.

Harry recognises the song as one from the band that Louis had played him in the waiting room; he hasn’t heard this one, though. It’s different—slower and more  _aching_ , Harry thinks.

“I like this one,” Harry tells him earnestly after a minute or so, because he does; he likes the piano and the way the singer croons  _I’ll look after you_  like it’s genuinely all he wants to do with his life. It feels the kind of  _real_  that Harry strives for in his own songs.

“Yeah?” Louis says, face lighting up happily like his entire opinion on Harry rested on what he thought of this one song—maybe it did. “I love it. I did a cover of it once, it was rather awful though.”

“You sing?” Harry asks, briefly glancing over and also reasonably convinced that the universe is purposefully _trying to make his life harder_.

“Oh, not really. Not, like, seriously—not like  _you_ ,” Louis says, shrinking into himself a bit, and then: “Next left.”

Louis moves to unplug his iPod when the song finishes, but Harry reaches out, catching his wrist gently, and says, “No, don’t. Put it on again if you want.”

He holds on probably a little longer than completely necessary, but when he lets go of his wrist, Louis just hits the  _repeat_  button and smiles warmly.

“So if you weren’t waiting for a friend, why were you  _really_  there, then?” Harry asks after a few quiet moments of Louis reeling off directions.

Louis doesn’t say anything for a while, until, “Why were  _you_?”

Harry can’t think of anything to offer other than a petty  _I asked you first_ , so he doesn’t say anything either; he’s not really sure he has an answer that makes much sense anyway. He just shrugs and turns the music up a bit instead.

Louis frowns at him like he’s trying hard to figure him out. “I lie,” he says finally, averting his gaze to the road.

Harry’s not entirely sure what he expected, but he doesn’t think it was that. “About what?”

Louis shrugs, still actively  _not-looking_  at him. “Everything.”

“Oh,” Harry says softly. “So, you’re a compulsive liar, then?”

Louis does look at him then, twisting around in his seat and studying him carefully. “But is it really lying if I  _think_ I’m telling the truth?”

“If you think you’re telling the truth, you wouldn’t call yourself a liar though,” Harry points out.

“Touché,” Louis says, impressed; Harry feels a little bit clever. “You’re good!”

When Harry pulls the car up outside of Louis’ house, Louis turns to him hesitantly and asks, “Do you want to come in?”

Harry glances at the clock consideringly; he has a few hours before he has to get the car back to Niall, and he’s still not sure he’s quite  _ready_  to see his mum pale and almost lifeless in a hospital bed with  _tubes_  everywhere.

Before he can answer, though, Louis adds plainly: “I mean for the tea, not for like sex or anything.”

Harry chokes out an unexpected laugh at that, and Louis’ eyes widen comically like he can’t even believe he said it, which only makes Harry laugh  _more_.

“Uh, that’s completely not the conclusion I made, but thanks for clarifying?” Harry manages eventually, trying to catch his breath.

“Fucking hell, sorry,” Louis says a little hopelessly; he twists his face and then covers it with his hands, peeking out through his fingers. “I don’t know what’s  _wrong_  with me.”

“I don’t really know what’s wrong with  _me_  either, mate, if it’s any consolation,” Harry says, and it comes out a lot more  _serious_  than he meant it to, so he shuts off the engine and adds quickly, “I’d love to come in. For the… not-sex.”

Louis glares and shoves his shoulder, but he’s smiling. “Shut  _up_ , twat.”

Harry laughs again until his chest hurts.

-

Louis’ house looks a lot like Harry envisages a  _pet hotel_ would look like if such a thing were to exist; there are three horribly colourful hamster cages, a parrot cage, and what Harry thinks might be two cat beds, and that’s just in the hallway.

“I have a lot of sisters,” Louis explains while pulling a  _dog_  off of Harry’s leg. Harry’s not quite sure whether shaking his leg would help or just  _encourage_  the dog, so he stands statue-still and lets Louis deal with it. “They really like animals, and mum can’t say no basically.”

“Get  _off_  him, Ted,” Louis says loudly, pulling at the dog’s collar; it must work though, because the dog jumps down and goes wandering off with a little whine. Harry almost feels  _bad_  about it.

“Sometimes you just have to kick him in the bollocks,” Louis says, grinning, “or you’ll never get anything done.”

“Oh,” Harry says, not sure whether he’s supposed to laugh or not.

Louis leads him through to the living room – where there are  _more_  horribly colourful hamster cages, some with horribly colourful tunnels, too, Harry notes – and into the kitchen; there’s a black and white cat lying by the back door and it stares up menacingly at Harry a lot like it’s  _judging_  him.

“Oh, that’s Molly,” Louis says, picking up a bright blue kettle, “she’s not very sociable, and I’m half-convinced she’s plotting to become Overlord – Overlady? – of the household.”

“Well, that’s slightly worrying,” Harry says, averting his gaze from Molly and slipping off his jacket.

He watches idly as Louis busies himself with the kettle and getting out mugs. “Hope you’re not a City fan,” Louis says lightly, pulling out a Man Utd. mug.

Harry laughs, sinking down to the floor to pet Molly, but she’s not particularly receptive. “Nah,” he says, “United for me.”

“Good lad,” Louis says, and he leans down and raises his hand for a high five; Harry feels a bit like Louis thinks they  _are_  five, but it’s kind of endearing so he slaps Louis’ hand, smiling.

Louis starts rambling about the football season for a while and how he thinks they could probably do better, _honestly_ , and Harry nods his agreement and wanders over to the fridge; there are lots of little photos and stick drawings stuck on with holiday magnets. “Are those your sisters?” he asks, pointing to a photo of Louis with a lot of younger girls.

“Yeah,” Louis says when he turns around, and he sounds  _proud_. He points them all out, “Lottie and Fizzie, and the twins are Daisy and Phoebe,” and then adds: “Oh and that’s my mum,” pointing to a lovely dark-haired lady.

“You weren’t kidding about the  _a lot of sisters_  thing,” Harry says amusedly.

“Yeah, no,” Louis laughs, handing him a mug of tea; Harry belatedly realises that he never even told Louis how he  _takes_  his tea, but he takes a sip anyway and surprisingly it tastes just fine.

“Do you want something to eat or—I don’t know,” Louis says, opening up the fridge. “I could make a sandwich or something?”

Harry isn’t really hungry, but he doesn’t think he’s eaten today so he says, “I like bananas.”

Louis frowns at him like he’s uttered something  _unholy_.

“Bananas are weird, do you not think?” he asks seriously; he tentatively grabs a banana from a red fruit bowl with flowers on it and hands it to Harry. “Like, when you look at a banana, you don’t expect the inside to look like it does. It’s a bit like the skin’s a jacket and the inside’s, like,  _flesh_.”

Harry stares down blankly at his banana; it looks threatening all of a sudden. “Wow, I’m not sure I want a banana anymore.”

“Sorry, that was weird. You want to leave now, don’t you?” Louis says quickly, shaking his head at himself almost unconsciously.

Harry opens his mouth to say  _no, actually_  and then probably  _stop_  himself from saying  _I like you_ , but Louis gets there before he can do any of that. “Anyway,” he says, “they’re nice though. I’m not, like, judging you for eating bananas… well, I sort of am. We have banana milkshake too, if you want some.”

“Uh, sure,” Harry says, regardless of the mug of tea he’s holding, his brain apparently finding it difficult to even _marginally_  keep up with Louis.

Louis looks him up and down curiously, squinting his eyes. “Do you only eat and drink things that are bananas or have bananas in? Is that one of your mental things?” he asks with a certain air of  _earnestness_.

Harry bursts out a laugh, because, well, that’s a new one. “No, oh my god. I just like bananas—like, in a normal way.”

“Okay,” Louis says, whistling out a breath, “I’m a bit relieved, thought I might have to buy a recipe book for all things  _banana_.”

Harry stops mid-sipping his tea and frowns. “Recipe book?”

“Oh. You can stay for lunch, yeah?” Louis asks, pouring a glass of banana milkshake. “Mum’ll insist you do, she’s forever fucking complaining I don’t bring any friends over. Except Stan, but he doesn’t really count.”

“Uh,” Harry says. “Yeah, I could.”

“Or you could just run away before mum gets home,” Louis says, shrugging and letting his smile drop some as if he’s second-guessing himself. Or Harry. “You’re probably sick of me talking shit now.”

Harry lowers his eyebrows into a confused frown; he kind of wants to pat Louis’ arm or something. Except he has a mug of tea in one hand and a glass of banana milkshake in the other, so he settles instead on saying, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Louis sighs a bit. “What?”

Harry sets down the glass and mug on the counter and does pats Louis’ arm then; it’s a bit awkward, but Harry can see the corner of Louis’ mouth turn up into a little smile. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here, okay?” he says, letting his hand fall away.

Louis’ looks at him curiously, like he’s searching for a catch or something. Apparently he doesn’t find one, though, because he smiles and asks, “Do you like Fifa?”

-

They play Fifa until Louis’ mum gets back a little while later. Louis won’t let Harry be United  _even if he is a guest_ , so they’re forced to flip a coin over it. Harry loses and then beats Louis with various lesser teams just out of _spite_.

When they hear the front door open, Louis pauses the game and pulls Harry up, saying, “Come meet my mum.”

“It’s probably a bit early in our relationship to be meeting the parents,” Harry says, it comes out partly  _serious_  even though he doesn’t exactly mean it to, and Harry’s a tiny bit  _fucking horrified_  at himself.

Harry doesn’t particularly want to have to admit that he’s ever so slightly  _gone_  on someone he met about two fucking hours ago; he’s sure there’s something fundamentally wrong with that.

Louis doesn’t even bat an eyelid though, just laughs and then drags Harry downstairs.

Louis’ mum is busy dragging shopping bags through the hall at the bottom of the stairs, she looks up and smiles a _hello_  at Louis, who leaps the last three stairs, taking a few of the bags off her.

Harry stands awkwardly on the fifth stair for a long moment, until Louis says brightly, “Oh, Mum, this is Harry, I met him at the psychiatrist’s. He likes bananas in a normal way.”

“Oh, lovely,” Louis’ mum says, a warm smile that matches Louis’ stretching her face. “Hello, Harry.”

Harry smiles sincerely. “He invited me in for not-sex,” he says with a grin. “It’s all very innocent.”

Louis’ eyes widen completely and Louis’ mum bursts out a high-pitched laugh and casts Louis a fond look.

“I quite like you,” she says to Harry. Harry doesn’t miss the roll of Louis’ eyes and the teasing glare he sends his way.

“I’m Jay,” Louis’ mum – Jay – says, her eyes crinkling like Louis’ do when she smiles at Harry. “I suppose Lou’s told you I moonlight as a superhero at weekends.”

Harry laughs, ignoring another eyeroll from Louis. “MI5, actually.”

Jay sends Louis a sharp look but she’s still smiling. “I bet that pays more than my actual job,” she says, and then: “Oh, Lou, you didn’t take the wheel out of Hammy’s cage this morning; the poor bugger’s dead now.”

“Shit. Did I not?” Louis asks, biting his lip; Jay shakes her head sadly. “Bollocks. Daisy’s going to  _kill_  me.”

“Yes, well, I got a replacement on the way home,” Jay tells him, bustling past them and into the kitchen. “I need you to bury poor Hammy for me though. Sodding hamster, why he couldn’t just learn to use a wheel is beyond me.”

“You have a hamster called  _Hammy_?” Harry asks Louis.

“ _Had_ ,” Louis corrects him, dumping the bags by the kitchen door and sitting down on the sofa. “And I didn’t name it, did I? It’d have been, like, Dr. Doom or something if I had a say.”

Harry sits down too, and says, “You should name the new one.”

“You’re staying for lunch, Harry, yes?” Jay shouts from somewhere in the kitchen.

Louis mouths a  _told you_ and Harry just shouts back, “I’d love to, thank you.”

-

Jay makes them sandwiches; Harry’s still not overly hungry but he’s polite enough to eat most of it—his mum taught him  _manners_. She quizzes him casually about his family and his job while Louis rolls his eyes at her – Harry’s beginning to think that’s just Louis’ default expression when it comes to his mum, it manages to be suitably annoyed and fond all at once.

It feels a bit like Jay’s ticking imaginary boxes to conclude whether he’s  _good enough for her son_. Harry thinks he might be doing okay though, even if he does tune out halfway through when Louis starts dancing out the _YMCA_  behind her. Harry can’t help but laugh eventually, because it’s possibly the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen, and Jay turns around and clicks her tongue.

“He’s quite a performer,” she says, despairing but definitely proud, Harry thinks. “Wait a sec’, I can show you.”

Jay sets down her plate on the coffee table in front of the sofa, and then crouches to the floor and starts rifling through a wicker basket of old tapes. Harry shoots Louis a questioning look.

Louis looks positively horrified. “Mum, what’re you  _doing_?”

“I thought I’d show Harry your Grease performance,” Jay says, waving her hand at him dismissively.

Louis groans, covering his face with his hands. “Oh fucking hell, mum.”

Jay tuts. “Watch your bloody language,” she berates.

“The girls aren’t even  _here_ ,” Louis complains, and then makes a completely bizarre face that Harry catches himself smiling stupidly at. “Harry doesn’t want to see me in  _Grease_ , mum.”

“Harry does, actually,” Harry says, and Louis casts him a betrayed sort of look, a bit like the way Obi-Wan looks at Anakin in Star Wars when Anakin’s  _gone over to the_   _Dark Side_.

“Harry  _doesn’t_  want to see me in Grease,” Louis repeats with more emphasis. “He’s only known me  _three hours_ , this’ll be the shortest friendship in all of bloody history if you show him Grease.”

“Oh, shut up, will you?” Jay snaps lightly, and to Harry’s surprise Louis actually  _does_ , sticking his lower lip out in a ridiculous pout. “You’re  _excellent_  in it, and I’m sure Harry will agree.”

Louis groans quite tragically but he sits down next to Harry on the sofa all the same; he presses in close to Harry’s side and picks up a red fluffy cushion and covers his face with it. Harry bumps their shoulders together and tries to look vaguely comforting, but he thinks he mostly fails.

Jay pushes the tape in the player and presses play, then squeezes onto the sofa next to Louis; she ends up pushing Louis so close that Harry thinks he may as well just be sitting on his  _lap_.

Louis apparently played the part of Danny Zuko, which—well, makes a ton of sense _,_  Harry thinks. He’s pretty _brilliant_  at it too, and Harry tells him so. Louis just shrugs indifferently in response though and Harry studies him for a moment and realises that Louis really has no clue how good he actually is.

“Alright,” Louis says when they’re about fifteen minutes in; he stands up right in front of the telly and frowns at the both of them like he’s about to  _tell them off_. “Harry’s seen enough now and I’m sure he’s very bored and very unimpressed so—”

“You’re really  _good_ ,” Harry interrupts matter-of-factly, because he thinks Louis might just be one of those people who hasn’t been told that enough; also it’s  _true_.

“See,” Jay says, meeting Harry’s eyes briefly, “Harry thinks you’re excellent.”

“ _Good_  is the word he used actually, mum,” Louis points out, huffing and sighing a lot as he turns around to turn off the video.

Harry shrugs. “Semantics, though. You’re  _excellent_  too.”

“Wow,  _shut up_ ,” Louis says, fumbling a bit with the video; it doesn’t sound half as mean as Harry thinks he probably meant it to though, just a bit pleading. So Harry shuts up.

“I’m going to go bury Hammy,” Louis announces when he stands back up, and Harry notices a fully-armoured _defensive_  in his eyes that definitely wasn’t there earlier.

Louis stalks into the kitchen without another word, his feet sounding too loud against the floor.

“You should go after him,” Jay says kindly, rolling her eyes in a sort of  _don’t mind him_  way, “it’s really me he’s angry at, not you.”

Harry nods and Jay looks at him a little sympathetically and  _a lot_  expectantly, so Harry moves.

Louis’ knelt down on the grass in the back garden when Harry catches up to him, digging up the earth with what looks like a little yellow and pink  _beach spade_. He’s in a wonky square-shaped area fenced off with sticks and full of tiny different coloured pebbles.

“Do you want some help?” Harry offers, hovering carefully above him. He looks closer at the pebbles and realises they’re gravestones. For pets.

Louis doesn’t say anything, so Harry crouches down next to him on the cold grass. He puffs out a breath, watching for a moment as the air goes all misty, and then says, “Sorry if I upset you.”

Louis keeps shovelling the dirt without a word, and Harry sighs; he’s really fucking useless at doing apologies. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright,” Louis says, setting down the spade and shrugging. Eventually he looks up and all of the blocks and guards that Harry had briefly seen in his eyes are gone. “Just me being a twat. Can you pass me Hammy?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Harry says, picking up the tiny little hamster body wrapped up neatly in a tea towel by his knees.

He hands it carefully to Louis, who places it down in the shallow hole and says, “I don’t really like watching it—the video. Makes me miss it.”

 _Oh_ , Harry thinks. “You don’t do it anymore?”

“No.” Louis shakes his head, sprinkling a little bit of dirt over.

“Why?” Harry asks carefully.

Louis sighs and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I just don’t,” he says simply, and Harry wants to ask a million more questions and possibly  _hug_  him but he has the common sense to not do  _either_  of those things.

“I feel like I should say something,” Louis says plaintively, staring down at the poor dead hamster, “like a eulogy.”

“I can start if you want?” Harry offers. Louis frowns a bit but nods, so Harry takes that as his cue to continue. “Uh, so, Hammy. Didn’t really know you to be honest, mate. I only met Louis a few hours ago so I’ve not heard much about you, either, but I’m sure you were a lovely pet, asides from the whole wheel issue that apparently culminated in your death—”

“Not funny,” Louis cuts in, but Harry can see the distinct shape of a smile before he ducks his head back down.

Louis sighs. “You were a decent pet, Hammy. Sorry for being a shit and forgetting to take out the wheel,” he says seriously, picking up a handful of dirt and throwing it on top of the hamster.

“Poetic,” Harry says, and Louis glares and throws dirt at him.

“I hope you enjoy the Rainbow Bridge, and say hi to all the others from me,” Louis adds, looking pointedly at Harry as if to say, “ _Better_?”, and adding another sprinkling of dirt and a clover probably for good measure.

Harry smiles a little and watches distantly while Louis piles on the soil and carves out Hammy’s name on a small pebble. He must look at least a little bit sad though because Louis looks up and asks with concern, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Harry shakes his head, mostly at himself. “I just… hope I don’t have to go to any more of these things any time soon.”

“Pet cemeteries?” Louis asks, his face twisting with confusion.

Harry laughs shortly. “No, funerals.”

“Oh,” Louis says, voice still questioning as he lays down the pebble.

“I lied,” Harry says, pointlessly piling more dirt onto the grave just for something to  _do_ , “when we met.”

“Lying’s  _my_  thing, get your own thing,” Louis quips, prodding his arm. “About what?”

“The reason I’m home,” Harry says, then takes a long breath. He thinks he should probably be good at this by now. “My mum’s sort of in a coma.”

Louis gets this look on his face that Harry wouldn’t exactly call  _pity_ , but it might be close. “What?”

“Yeah. She crashed the car, I don’t really know lots of details,” Harry says. His voice is remarkably level, he thinks; he’s a little worried Louis might think he’s an  _emotionless robot_. “They don’t completely know if she’ll ever wake up, so.”

“Ever?” Louis asks, barely a whisper.

Harry nods carefully and Louis stares and stares for so long that Harry’s quite sure his eyes must be blurring. It’s not until Louis bows his head down and sniffles a little bit that Harry realises he’s  _crying_ —not properly, but there are  _tears_.

“Probably I’m the one who’s supposed to cry,” he says, confused; he’s not quite sure what the fuck he’s supposed to  _do_  so he just smiles in what he hopes is a marginally sympathetic way.

Louis sobs out a laugh. “Sorry, it’s just. It’s sad.”

Harry opens his mouth to agree that  _yeah, it fucking really is_ , but he doesn’t get the chance because Louis crawls carefully on his knees across the gap between them and then hugs Harry so  _close_  that there’s barely any space to breathe.

Harry tries to settle into it, un-tensing his body and pressing his face into Louis’ shoulder. Louis breathes out heavily and rubs his hands gently up and down Harry’s back, and Harry can’t help but close his eyes. He can feel himself shaking and not from the cold, and he thinks, horrifyingly, that he might be getting  _choked up_.

He doesn’t cry, but he can feel the tears stinging at his eyes.

Louis holds him until the shaking stops and then pulls back gently and says, “I think this calls for more tea. Or alcohol. Probably alcohol.”

Harry laughs, feeling his chest loosen. “I can’t,” he says regretfully, “I have to drive the car back for my mate; he needs it for work. Maybe another day?”

Louis fumbles his hand down and pulls Harry’s phone out of his jeans pocket, struggling a bit for a while – maybe he should get looser fitting jeans, Harry muses vaguely. He hands the phone to Harry and says, “Put your passcode in,” so Harry does—it’s _NICK_ because Nick had changed it one time and Harry got too used to it and never bothered changing it back.

Louis types into his phone for a while, frowning in concentration; he scans his eyes over it a few times and then gives it back to Harry with a grin. “Now you have my number,” he says happily, “I saved it as  _Louis the Liar_ , so you know it’s me.”

“I don’t know any other Louis’,” Harry says.

Louis shrugs. “Just in case. You might meet another five Louis’ tomorrow. You have to anticipate all plausibilities.”

Harry laughs. “Is that even a word?”

“It is now,” Louis says seriously, and then, “Come on, one more cuppa before you go.”

-

Harry gets back to the flat a whole lot later than he had anticipated; it’s late afternoon and he should be  _asleep_. He throws the keys into the bowl in the hall with a loud clang, kicking his shoes off before stumbling down the hall to the spare room.

He’s about halfway when he hears vaguely questionable and suggestive noises from Zayn and Niall’s room. He rolls his eyes and tries not to giggle and make this a big bucket of awkward later, because though he’s sure Niall and Zayn wouldn’t be the least bit embarrassed, he knows Liam would turn beetroot red and refuse to meet his eyes for approximately a day, maybe even two.

Harry’s not stupid, he knows that Liam must be involved in this somehow; it’s hard not to when Harry’s in the _only spare room_  and there’s four of them currently living here. But he doesn’t know in what capacity, and none of them have brought it up, so Harry’s definitely not going to. Not yet, anyway.

He creeps past as quietly as he can, hears an indistinct  _moan_ , and slips quickly into his room, shutting the door tight behind him. He can still hear the noises, but they’re a lot more muffled.

Harry leans against the back of his door for a moment and then pulls out his phone; he hesitates for a little bit and then texts Louis:  _My friends are having very loud sex in the next room, it’s kinda weird but hilarious! xx_

Louis doesn’t reply straightaway, so Harry pulls off his clothes, tossing them to the floor, and then crawls into bed and covers his ears with a pillow.

Eventually, his phone buzzes, and Harry props himself up a bit and reads:  _Hello to you too Harry Styles x_

Harry rolls his eyes and sends:  _Just Harry_

_Ok Just Harry . Put some earphones in !! x_

Harry laughs because he’s not sure exactly how that didn’t even  _occur_  to him.

_Ok. Give me something to listen to xx_

_Hmmmmm, how about you give me something and I give you something ?  You should properly listen to The Fray !! x_

_Okay, accepted. Yours is Paper Aeroplanes. :) x_

_Also accepted :)_

It turns out all three of The Fray’s albums are on YouTube, so Harry puts them on as loud as his phone will let him and closes his eyes.

He’s onto the second album and just drifting off when Louis texts:  _I like Paper Aeroplanes_

 _I like The Fray, they’re good to fall asleep to xx,_ Harry replies tiredly, eyes half-closed _._

_Just what every band wants to hear I’m sure :P x_

Harry laughs, quiet.  _I meant in a good way_

_I know :P Sleep well Just Harry xx_

Harry does.

-

Harry stays in bed for exactly three days; the most energy he uses is moving to the sofa to watch  _Jeremy Kyle_. He’s reasonably sure that if the spare room had a telly and an  _en suite_ he probably wouldn’t have left it at all.

Gemma calls him approximately seventeen times on the first day. It decreases significantly as the days pass but Harry suspects that’s entirely because he starts  _ignoring_  more of them. When he does answer, he listens distantly as she tells him again and again in a variety of different ways and in a variety of different  _tones_  – she tries angry, sympathetic, guilty,  _everything_  – that he’s going to have to visit mum and face the situation at some point.

Harry’s perfectly aware of that though; he doesn’t need to hear it every hour like a fucking news bulletin.

On the fourth day,  _Louis_  calls.

Harry stares at his phone for a while as it flashes up  _Louis the Liar_.

He answers on the tenth ring. “Hello?”

“Hello, Just Harry!” Louis’ voice is loud and far too energetic; Harry smiles though, even if he does have to hold the phone a bit away from his ear.

He can vaguely hear someone yelling in the background before Louis shouts out a  _shut up_  and then says to Harry, “I’m playing football tonight. Do you want to come be my cheerleader? You don’t have to wear a skirt. Unless you really want to, I don’t know.”

Harry laughs tiredly, a little bit baffled, but he hasn’t left the flat in three days, and Liam, Zayn and Niall are starting to look concerned in a way that implies they’re plotting to  _do something_  about it. So Harry says, “Yeah, why not?”

“Great!” Louis exclaims happily over more shouting in the background that Harry can’t quite make out. “I’ll text you the address in a bit.”

“Okay,” Harry says, propping himself up against the pillows in bed. “I probably won’t be wearing a skirt, though.”

“Oh, well now I’m just  _sad_ ,” Louis says dejectedly. Harry can  _hear_  the amused smile in his voice, too, though. “Okay, well, see you soon, then! I’m no David Beckham, though, mate. Just warning you.”

“I’ll keep my expectations incredibly low, then,” Harry says, and Louis laughs briskly before hanging up.

-

Harry’s beginning to notice that Louis’ actually quite good at most things he insists he’s _not good_ at—singing and acting and football at least, anyway.

It’s bitter cold, but Harry barely feels it while he’s watching Louis play. Louis was quite right – he’s not exactly David Beckham – but he’s _good_ , and he can definitely hold his own. Harry finds himself cheering almost every time he’s on the ball or makes a great tackle.

At half time, Louis jogs up to him and says, “I was joking about the cheerleader thing, you know. You’re worse than my _mum_.”

Harry laughs, making a face. “Sorry. You’re good, though.”

Louis just grins. “I’m alright. You should go say hi. To my mum, I mean,” he says, pointing to the other side of the field where Harry can see his mum standing and waving.

He waves back, then Louis smiles briefly and presses a quick kiss to Harry’s cheek and says, “Thanks for coming.”

Harry stares after him for a long moment and then wanders across to the other side of the field to where Jay is. She smiles widely and hugs him tight.

“Oh, he’ll be so glad you’re here, I imagine,” she says, giving Harry a bit of a knowing look that he doesn’t even know how to interpret. He’s slowly realising that the Tomlinson family in general are just a bit unreadable—pets included.

He stands and cheers Louis on with Jay for the rest of the match, getting a little lost in it all, and when it’s over and Louis’ team – he thinks he heard someone call them _The Three Horseshoes_ – have won 4-1, it feels a lot like only five minutes have passed.

Jay hugs Harry briefly again and says, “I’m going to disappear, I’m sure he doesn’t want his mum embarrassing him.” She looks at Harry for a long moment and then adds, “I’m glad he’s found you.”

Harry frowns, slightly confused by the exchange, but then Louis’ running over with his arms in the air, another player close behind him. He throws his arms around Harry, very nearly knocking them both to the ground and exclaims, “How fucking sick are we?”

Harry laughs, trying to get the air back that Louis had knocked out of him and says, “Pretty fucking sick.”

“You caught us on one of our luckier days,” the guy behind Louis says – number 18, Harry thinks, one of the strikers.

Louis rolls his eyes and grabs him in a headlock. “Don’t listen to Stan, he likes to rain on everyone’s fucking parade, even his own.”

“You _scored_. Twice,” Harry points out.

Stan grins. “Yeah, I’m the best player this team has, honestly,” he says, shrugging.

Louis punches him in the arm. “Wanker. Completely true though,” he says fondly, then points to Harry belatedly and says, “This is Harry who I was telling you about.”

Louis and Stan exchange an unreadable look before Stan shakes Harry’s hand and says, “Alright, mate? Lou keeps talking about you.”

Louis punches him in the arm again. “Fuck off,” he says. “Let’s go for a celebratory pint, yeah? Harry?”

“Yeah, I’d love to,” Harry says.

They wind up in a pub called _The Three Horseshoes_ and Harry manages to put two and two together and come up with four. “So you’re a pub team?” he asks, leaning against the bar while Stan orders their drinks.

“Oh, yeah,” Louis says happily.

“We live pretty glamorous lives,” Stan adds quite seriously, “WAGs and everything, or… HABs for Lou, I suppose.”

Harry frowns. “HABs?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Husbands and boyfriends,” he says, sighing exaggeratedly.

“Oh,” Harry says—that makes sense.

“Guessing you knew that one though,” Stan says grinning a bit. Louis hits him hard in the arm again; Harry’s honestly beginning to worry about Stan’s arm and what the future might hold for it.

Harry just shrugs though, and says without thinking it through very much, “I was hoping.”

Stan laughs loudly and Louis narrows his eyes at him, but Harry doesn’t miss the sort of fond look he throws his way first.

Harry honestly doesn’t know what he’s _doing_ , really; he’s not remotely stable enough to be having indescribable _feelings_ for someone he’s not long met—or maybe that’s part of the being unstable thing, he’s not even sure. Harry likes to think he’s at least stable enough sometimes to tell the difference though.

Stan hands Harry a pint and then Louis leads them over to a table, sitting down and talking animatedly about his _brilliant tackles_. Stan joins in too, talking about the technicalities of his goals, and this is good, Harry thinks—he can talk football and not at all feel like he’s interfering.

They end up talking about and analysing the match for a good half hour before they all realise they have no beer left and Harry goes to the bar. Stan offers to help, and Harry thinks this might be going in a _you hurt my friend, I kill you_ sort of direction.

Except when they get to the bar, Stan turns to him and just says, “Louis lies.”

“I know,” Harry says blankly, then leans over the bar to order another three pints.

Stan looks surprised, like he hadn’t expected it at all. “He… never tells anyone that,” he says carefully.

“Oh,” Harry says; he doesn’t even know what that means. “Why are _you_ telling me?”

Stan smiles a little, sliding a pint over towards him. “He’s been talking about you a lot, mate. I just thought I’d let you know before it got too far and you maybe found out and reacted badly or something,” he says sincerely, and Harry feels a sudden overwhelming fondness for him. “I’m just being an annoying twat and looking out for him—not that he needs it, he’s a _twat_ , too.”

Harry laughs. “You’re a good mate.”

Stan shrugs, exaggerating _put upon_ a bit. “I try.”

“We met at the psychiatrist’s, did he tell you that?” Harry asks, picking up his own pint and gulping a bit down before picking Louis’ up too.

Stan frowns a lot at that. “No.”

Harry smiles and shrugs. “I sort of get _fucked up_.”

Stan just says, “Oh, well that’s good,” then half-hugs Harry before they make their way back over to the table.

Louis narrows his eyes at them both. “Was he giving you the _he’s my best mate and I’ll fucking destroy you if you harm a hair on his head_ thing?” he asks Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry says, smiling, “it’s been firmly established that if I hurt you, my body won’t be found because it will be scattered across the country in _pieces_.”

Louis leans over to punch Stan in the arm again but Stan sees it coming this time, catching his wrist. Louis looks half upset and half impressed; he swears at Stan with his fingers and then scoots closer to Harry and says, “I don’t even _need_ you. I have a new best mate.”

“Because _that’s_ all you want him to be,” Stan quips. His reflexes aren’t quick enough this time and Louis catches him right in the middle of his arm. He looks entirely pleased with himself.

When he drops his hand back down under the table, he reaches out and tangles his and Harry’s fingers together. Harry thinks it should probably be _weird_ , but it isn’t so he just holds on.

-

It’s very nearly an entire week since he arrived when Harry finally manages to summon up some sort of courage to visit his mum.

Liam goes with him. He waits with Harry in the car-park while he dithers around for a while, unconvinced he can even make it out of the _car_. He waits with him again when they’re inside, too, while Harry paces back and forth just outside of his mum’s hospital room for a horribly long twenty minutes.

When Harry goes in, Liam squeezes his hand tightly and says, “I’ll be right outside, okay?”

It’s not that Harry was unprepared; he sort of knows what coma patients look like—at least from the telly. But he wasn’t at all prepared to see his mum like that.

She looks oddly serene, if it wasn’t for the awful _tubes_ Harry would swear she’s just sleeping. He hovers a bit by the doorway for a while, afraid that he’ll disturb her if he moves.

It’s not until a nurse comes in a little bit later to check on her that Harry actually does move. He scoots away from the door and further towards the bed and tries his best not to look at the machines.

The nurse is a petite woman with a kind and sympathetic face. She looks at Harry for long moment, then says, “You can talk to her if you like, and hold her hand. We find patients can sometimes be responsive.”

“Can she hear me?” Harry finds himself asking.

The nurse nods. “There’s a good possibility, yes.”

She smiles warmly and pats Harry’s arm before vacating the room. Harry moves closer in little steps until he finally gets to the chair right by the bed and sinks down into it.

He gently picks up his mum’s hand, feeling a little bit stupid. He doesn’t know what to say. There’s a thousand things he probably could say – an apology to name one, but apologising to her when she’s in a coma is probably a bit of a _get out of jail free_ card.

He tries a simple, “Hey mum, it’s Harry,” and sort of expects her to squeeze his hand in the way it seems to happen so many times in soaps or stupid hospital programmes like sodding _Casualty_. She doesn’t of course.

Harry takes a breath and thinks about telling her all about London and his friends and his music, but when he opens his mouth the words won’t come.

So he talks about Louis instead, right up until visiting hours are over.

-

“So I can’t help but notice, lads,” Harry says conversationally, diverting his eyes from the telly where _Saw_ #500 is playing—he loses track with all of these sequels honestly.

He’s half-stretched across the sofa with his feet hanging over the edge and his head resting in Liam’s lap. Liam’s idly playing with his hair just the way he likes; he’s been comforting and almost _careful_ with Harry since they got back from the hospital. It’s nice and familiar and Harry feels calm, almost.

What isn’t familiar, though, is the way Liam’s eyes have been flitting distractedly between the telly and Zayn and Niall for a good twenty minutes now. They’re squashed together on the armchair opposite – Zayn more on Niall’s lap than the chair – and Niall’s been whispering probably nauseating things into Zayn’s ear for the better part of the film. Liam’s eyes look half murderous and half _sad_ , and Harry has to say _something_.

They all glance curiously at him with matching expressions; it’s a bit disconcerting really.

“Can’t help but notice what?” Niall asks eventually, exchanging a look with Liam that Harry can’t quite figure out.

“Four of us live here, yeah?” Harry asks. He’s met with silence. “And there’re only two bedrooms—unless you’ve got another one hidden behind a bookshelf, which would be fucking brilliant, actually.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “We don’t.”

Harry’s a tiny bit disappointed, he’s not going to lie. “Oh, okay. Well, point is, one of them’s spare, which leaves you three—”

“Sharing a room, yeah,” Liam finishes calmly.

Harry waits a moment, watching each of their expressions, then asks carefully, “Am I supposed to read into that what I’m absolutely reading into that?”

Niall snorts. “Probably, mate, yeah.”

Harry falls silent for a moment, only the distorted screams of Jigsaw’s latest victim audible in the uncomfortable quiet of the room. He feels a bit like everyone’s holding their breath. “Well, fuck,” he says finally, “you all kept that one quiet. Cheers for telling me.”

Liam stares down at the ground and Harry can’t help but notice the way Zayn looks at him—a bit like he wants to leap right over to the sofa and kiss the worried look off his face. Niall doesn’t look all that different, either.

“Most people think it’s weird,” Liam says eventually.

Harry gives him an incredulous look. “I’m not most people. What’d you think I’d do, _disapprove_?” he asks, because honestly, he’s not letting _that_ one slide.

“Don’t be stupid,” Zayn says, and Niall shakes his head forcefully.

“It just,” Liam says quietly, “it wasn’t really something we thought we should tell you through email.”

“Actually, _Liam_ thought that,” Niall puts in. “We told him to tell you.” Liam casts Niall a hilarious betrayed sort of look then, and Harry wants to laugh. He doesn’t, though, just sits up from Liam’s lap and frowns at him instead.

“You could have called,” he says, a little bit affronted.

“So could _you_ ,” Liam points out.

“Yeah but—”

“Maybe I was sick of this friendship being one-sided,” Liam snaps, and then actually looks _surprised_ at himself. Like he can’t quite believe he said it.

Harry deflates slightly and sinks back into the sofa. He can’t even argue that one. “Yeah, okay, I’ve been a terrible friend. But you still could have _told_ me.”

“We should’ve,” Zayn agrees quietly, raising his eyebrows at Liam a bit.

Liam apparently takes the hint. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like… that.”

Harry sighs sadly and then shuffles closer to him; Liam looks horribly like a little lost puppy when he’s sad and it’s _awful_. “No, you’re right, mate. I’ve been a bit shit.”

“We missed you, you know,” Liam says after a moment, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry lets out a long breath. “Yeah, I missed you too.”

“Right,” Zayn says, pushing Niall off his lap and standing up. “Can we, like, have a group hug or something?”

Liam nods silently so Harry does too, and suddenly he’s got a _lapful of Niall_ and Zayn’s hand is in his hair and Liam’s head is buried into his shoulder. He’s not even sure he can breathe and he feels like his heart might burst, so he just holds on.

They stay like that for a long while until Niall puts some space between them, looks at them all quite seriously and says, “This is sickening. You know what this night needs?”

Liam rolls his eyes, smiling. “I can guess.”

Niall grins, a glint in his eye. “Beer!”

-

Liam’s standing in the kitchen later, eating Mini Cheddars and staring at the open fridge, when Harry finds him.

“You came to get more beer, like, ten minutes ago, mate,” Harry tells him, leaning against the kitchen counter next to the fridge so he can see Liam’s face—he looks a bit _fucked_.

“Oh,” Liam says, face lighting up with a sort of recollection, “ _that’s_ what I’m here for. I couldn’t remember.”

Harry feels a bit drunk but definitely not quite as drunk as Liam is. He pats Liam sympathetically on the arm because he’s a good friend. “Are you going to tell me about Zayn and Niall?” he asks, because he’s also a friend that takes advantage.

“Oh,” Liam says again. He twists his face bit like he’s trying to concentrate. “It’s just—a thing. I really, really love them. Did you know that?”

Harry laughs quietly and pats Liam on the arm again. “Good,” he says.

He’s a little bit worried about it all. Zayn and Niall have always been a thing and now there’s Liam, too. Harry’s afraid someone might get hurt (mostly Liam). But he’s noticed the way Zayn and Niall both look at him – it’s difficult not to – and he hopes that means it will all be okay and no hearts will be broken or anything awful like that.

Liam opens up the fridge again and this time gets out two bottles of beer. Harry reaches past helpfully to pick up another two and asks with a smirk, “What happened to the whole not drinking thing?”

“Oh, yeah. My kidney got better!” Liam exclaims happily. He stumbles while closing the fridge and drops some Mini Cheddars on the white-grey linoleum floor. He stares at them mournfully for so long that Harry thinks he might actually start crying.

Harry stares too. He sort of wants to pat Liam on the head this time. “You’re a funny drunk, mate,” he says.

Liam just smiles dumbly at him. He hugs him tight and says, “I love you, Haz,” and then: “Wait, hey, I’m _not_ _drunk_.”

Harry just laughs loudly and drags them both back into the living room where Niall’s dancing badly to Justin Bieber – Harry considers recording it and putting it on YouTube, Niall wouldn’t get mad with him, he’s sure – and Zayn’s leaning out of the balcony door smoking.

“Not in the house, Zayn!” Liam shrieks, pulling his arm out of Harry’s grip and pushing Zayn completely out of the door.

It’s slightly hilarious, Harry thinks, that Liam’s sensible even when drunk.

“I’m on the balcony,” Zayn protests, hands flailing as he stumbles outside.

Liam puts his _cross face_ on, but it doesn’t really have the same serious edge to it as it usually does. “You were half in the house, _actually_ ,” he says indignantly.

Zayn sticks out his tongue and it’s so ridiculous that it’s quite adorable; or it is at least until Liam leans forward and _sucks it into his mouth_.

Harry averts his gaze then and Niall laughs and tugs on his arm and says, a bit breathless from the dancing, “Let’s do shots!”

-

Harry doesn’t quite realise just how drunk he is until he’s calling Louis and telling him that the stars are _particularly shiny tonight_.

Louis laughs hard down the line for at least a minute or two, and Harry pouts at the phone. The stars _are_ shiny.

“You’re very drunk, mate,” Louis says eventually, and Harry snorts because _obviously_.

“I _am_ ,” he confirms, nodding his head certainly just to clarify. “Can you come and pick me up please?”

Louis laughs again. “ _What_?”

“Need some air,” Harry mumbles, drawing a squiggly stick figure on the window which he names Louis (in his head).

“Stick your head out the window, then, you loony,” Louis suggests. Harry stares briefly at the window clasps in the kitchen like he’s considering it. He’s really not.

“Please,” he says desperately.

Louis sighs like this is the worst thing to ever happen to him. Probably Harry’s the worst thing to ever happen to him really, he thinks; that tends to be how it goes. He’s a bit of a burden, really—his own dad cut him loose, after all.

“Shut up, you drunken fool. You’re not at all,” Louis says exasperatedly, and _oh_ —oh, did Harry say that out loud? “Okay, tell me how to get there.”

Harry gives him the address to Google-map because he doesn’t really have a clue, and Louis says, “You better not be asleep or anything when I get there.”

“I definitely won’t,” he says. He picks up a bottle of vodka and downs the last dregs in the bottom, twisting his face. “See you in a bit, yeah?”

Louis makes an amused noise of agreement before hanging up.

“I’m going out,” Harry announces when he returns to the living room.

Liam looks up from where he’d apparently been making out with Niall and says, “It’s _three am_.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry says, even though he really didn’t. “Louis’ picking me up.”

Zayn frowns from where he’s lying on the floor, his leg hooked over Liam’s. “The one you met at the psychiatrist’s?”

Harry sighs and says, “Yes. There are no other ones,” which earns him an _Awwww_ from Liam. Harry’s decided he really doesn’t like drunk Liam at all anymore.

“Not like _that_ ,” he says exasperatedly.

“Text if you’re not coming home, okay?” Liam says seriously, looking at Harry with what Harry likes to refer to as his Dad Face. Harry feels a slight pang in his heart at the word _home_.

“Aye, Sir,” he says, mock saluting him.

Liam glares, then Niall’s kissing him again and Zayn’s moving his hands with intent and Liam’s not glaring anymore at all. Harry covers his eyes dramatically and slips out of the room.

-

“I brought water,” Louis says, standing outside of the car and holding the door open.

He looks tired; he’s wearing a _Wonder Woman_ t-shirt and pair of grey-faded jogging bottoms, and his hair’s sticking up oddly. Harry tries hard not to say something stupid like _you look kind of beautiful_.

“Did I wake you up?” he asks instead, feeling a little guilty.

Louis just shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s okay.”

He moves like he’s going to throw the bottle of water to Harry but then seems to think better of it, leaning over to put it in his hand instead. Harry’s glad; he’s not sure his ability to catch is up to much right now. He twists off the cap with a, “Thanks,” and then gulps down at least half of it before stumbling into the car.

“Where do you want to go then?” Louis asks, sliding in next to him and looking across curiously.

Harry forgoes saying something terribly clichéd (he does quite seriously consider _to the stars_ for a split second) and shrugs. “Wherever you wish,” he says contently.

Louis drives them to a park that Harry doesn’t recognise—there are trees and what looks a lot like a wooden castle. Harry sort of wants to get out and explore, but Louis doesn’t shut off the engine.

He sits and stares at Harry for a moment before asking, “Feel any less drunk yet?” with a grin.

Harry shrugs; he does, he thinks, a little bit. “Sort of?” he says. He still rather wants to tell Louis he’s beautiful though, so he must still be quite drunk—not that Louis’ _not_ beautiful.

He’s _completely_ beautiful.

Harry thinks it’s probably best that he doesn’t get out and explore. It seems entirely likely that it will all end in, like, a broken leg or something. The hospital probably wouldn’t even let him have his own room like his mum gets, either.

“Should you be drinking that much on your meds?” Louis asks; it’s not criticising, just slightly curious.

Harry raises an eyebrow and Louis looks down to the floor and says, “I sort of sneaked a peek at your form when you were filling it in. Sorry, mate. Told you I’m an invasive twat.”

“Don’t be.” Harry shrugs. He’s not mad; he doesn’t think he’d be mad if he were sober either. There’s a lot about Louis that Harry knows, it’s probably only fair that Louis knows how fucked up he is too. “I’ve stopped taking my meds anyway.”

Louis looks up from the floor, frowning. “Oh. Why?”

“So I can feel,” Harry says.

Louis looks like he’s going to say something, but Harry unfastens his seatbelt and leans over and wraps his arms around him without much preamble and Louis just remains silent. It’s a horribly awkward angle and Harry’s back aches a bit from stretching across, but Louis breathes out happily and pulls him closer and Harry thinks he can feel Louis’ heartbeat—it sounds _fast_.

He doesn’t move for a while. He pushes his face against Louis’ neck and shivers a bit and stays there until Louis gently pushes him away and studies his face. His eyes are soft and sparkly; he _really_ likes Louis’ eyes.

“Feel what?” Louis asks finally, turning down the music. Harry hadn’t even realised there was music on.

He sighs, leaning back into his chair. “I don’t really know what’s wrong with me or if there even _is_ anything wrong with me,” he says slowly, and he blinks and misses the small second in which Louis reaches across and takes hold of his hand.

“I’ve spent lots and lots of my life too, like, _medicated_ to tell the difference between my feelings and the drugs,” he continues. He tries not to falter, but Louis’ hand feels nice and warm around his and he kind of wants to hold it _forever_.

He’s probably still a bit drunk, then.

“How do you feel right now?” Louis asks. His voice sounds careful and nervous and he’s staring at Harry in a way Harry’s not sure he can even decipher. But he wants to know. He wants to know all of Louis’ little expressions and what they mean; he wants to know all of Louis’ secrets, all of the things he keeps hidden.

He wants to know what it would feel like to _kiss_ him.

“Like—like I really want to kiss you,” Harry answers before he can think over the words and _stop himself_.

Louis opens his mouth then closes it again, and Harry thinks: _shit_. He probably shouldn’t have said that. Except then Louis’ unfastening his own seatbelt and leaning forward a little bit like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

“Louis—”

“You can,” Louis interrupts. “If you want.”

So Harry does. He leans forward holding himself up with one arm and pulling Louis across to meet him the middle with the other. It’s not very co-ordinated, but Louis doesn’t seem to care and Harry _definitely_ doesn’t care.

Louis kisses back tentatively at first like he’s not really sure what Harry wants, so Harry just tightens his hand in Louis’ hair and _shows_ him. He licks and bites until Louis understands and then Louis’ kissing him back slick and messy and Harry’s panting hotly against him.

He sort of wants to climb over and into Louis’ lap and never stop, but he’s aware enough to know that’s probably not a good idea. So he just kisses him for a bit longer, slowing it down a little until they’re trading small and soft kisses that aren’t even really kisses.

“I should take you home,” Louis says breathlessly, “your friends’ll probably be worried as fuck.”

Harry honestly doesn’t think they’ll be worried _at all_ judging by the last position he saw them all in, but he doesn’t say as much. He leans forward and kisses him again slowly instead, a brief lazy slide of lips and tongue, and then mumbles, “Okay.”

-

When Harry wakes up he immediately covers his face with his hands and groans. He kind of wishes it could have been one of those nights that he _doesn’t_ remember.

He stumbles through to the kitchen for water, complaining loudly about his head on the way to no one in particular.

Liam’s buried in the sofa in a much sorrier state, watching a _nature show_. Harry only really notices him because he says very nearly unintelligible, “When’d you get back?”

Harry stares at him for a moment before sitting down on the edge of the sofa. “I don’t know,” he says, then adds, “You look like shit,” and hands Liam his glass of water.

“I feel like shit,” Liam says miserably. “The worst kind of shit. I wish my kidney had never got better.”

Harry pats his leg and says, “I kissed Louis.”

Liam doesn’t say anything for a moment, just sits up a little bit to look at him sympathetically. “Well, that was stupid.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry says deadpan; he’s really quite aware of that one.

Harry leaves Liam to die on the sofa for a bit longer to go and get dressed; he needs a lot of fresh air and possibly to talk to his mum. Even if she isn’t responsive and can’t really offer any advice, there’s something a bit comforting in it. It’s his _mum_.

Louis texts him en route to the hospital, it’s just a friendly: _Hope you’re not feeling too shit !! xx_ but it twists something inside of Harry and he has to remember to focus on _driving_ before he ends up in hospital too.

He doesn’t reply.

-

Harry’s never really been very good at avoidance, but he makes a special effort in this case.

Louis texts him a lot in the following days. Just inane little things about one of his sisters or a hamster or the music he’s listening to, but Harry ignores all of them because he can’t think of anything to say that’s not _I really want to kiss you again and probably more._

Four days after the kiss, when Harry’s doing the dishes because Liam had complained and made a scene earlier, Louis texts: _Are you avoiding me ? :( xx_

Harry stares at it for a long while, dishes forgotten. He doesn’t reply to that one either, though, and Louis texts him again the next day with: _Guess that’s a yes :( xx_

Harry feels like a bit of a twat and Liam tells him off for running away like he always does, but Harry still doesn’t text back. Instead, he texts Caroline to reassure her that he’s still alive and not likely to go jumping off any cliffs, and he sends Nick a picture he took the other night of Liam, Zayn and Niall snuggled together on the sofa and—and the way Zayn’s looking at them like they literally _light up his entire world_ absolutely does not make Harry think of the way Louis looks at him.

Six days after the kiss, Niall tells him excitedly, “We’re having an early Christmas party!”

Harry frowns and sets down the PS3 controller, pausing _Call of Duty_. “Okay,” he says slowly.

“It’s on Saturday, in the flat,” Niall says, a bit of an odd, menacing look in his eyes that Harry really doesn’t like at all.

“Okay,” Harry says again, even slower.

Niall rolls his eyes in exasperation and says, “You can invite Louis.”

Oh, Harry thinks. He shakes his head. “I’m avoiding Louis.”

“Right,” Niall says, sitting himself down next to Harry and picking up the second controller to add a Player 2. “Well, you should probably stop doing that because he’s already coming.”

Harry gapes and his stomach clenches. “ _What_?” he asks, trying to relay just how horrified he is in his tone.

“Liam invited him,” Niall says with a shrug. “He added him on Facebook.”

Harry is absolutely going to _kill_ Liam, puppy dog eyes or not.

Niall must catch the dismayed look on Harry’s face because he bumps their shoulders together and says, “It’s alright, man. At least he can be drunk this time, too.”

“You’re shit at being comforting, Niall,” Harry snaps, lightly because it’s not exactly Niall’s fault. He’ll save his _angry yelling_ for Liam.

Niall shrugs, picking up Harry’s controller and handing it to him. “Let’s blast some zombies. How’s that for comforting, mate?”

Harry just sighs, it’s pretty comforting actually.

-

“You can’t hide in your room and drink alone _all night_ ,” Liam says, sticking his head around the door and looking pointedly at Harry. Harry can vaguely hear chatter and music behind him.

He downs some of his vodka – and orange juice? mango juice? he doesn’t even know – and says, “Yes, I can.”

Liam sighs. “He’s not even here yet.”

Harry points an angry accusatory finger at him. It’s quite possible he’s a little tipsy already. “He wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for you, Liam Payne.”

Liam rolls his eyes like Harry’s the one in the wrong here. “Just come out for a little bit. Dani’s here, and Josh, they’re asking after you. And Zayn’s friend, Danny. I think El’s about somewhere too.”

Harry thinks it’s entirely unfair for Liam to play the guilt card, but he supposes he should probably show his face and say his _hello_ s, at least. “Alright,” he groans. “I’ll come out.”

He grabs his glass of vodka and whatever juice it is and follows Liam out and into the living room where there is a mildly horrifying amount of people—Harry doesn’t even recognise most of them, he suspects a lot of them are people Niall knows because Niall knows fucking everyone.

Danielle finds him first, and Harry’s grateful because Danielle’s _nice_ and non-judgemental and doesn’t say anything about Louis even though Liam’s probably told her everything. Harry drinks more vodka and chats contently to her about her dancing course and tries to put Louis out of his mind completely.

He mills around a bit after that; he talks to Eleanor for a while, and Josh, too, and Zayn and his friends somehow convince him to dance for a song or two—he’s had quite a lot of vodka at this point, he thinks.

When Louis actually shows up, Harry’s mostly drunk. He’s not really sure whether that’s good or bad, but it makes saying hello a lot easier anyway.

He breezes up, calm and collected – like a cucumber, he thinks, with a giggle – and pulls Louis into a tight hug and mutters a, “Hello,” into his ear.

Louis smiles oddly then says, “Looks like we’ve got some catching up to do,” and Harry notices Stan’s standing behind him. He gives him a little wave.

“Alcohol’s in the kitchen,” Harry announces, pointing the way. “That way.”

Harry spends the next hour at the opposite side of the room from Louis. Liam gives him these annoyingly patronising and worried glances every now and then, as if he’s telling Harry with his eyes that he should probably do something.

Harry doesn’t really want to do something, though, so he drinks more alcohol instead—someone hands him a bottle of whiskey, he’s not sure who, but he takes it and necks some, twisting up his face at the after-taste. He doesn’t even _like_ whiskey.

He eventually ends up on the floor in the middle of the living room with Niall and most of the people he doesn’t actually know. He barely even listens to the conversation though until a girl he _definitely_ doesn’t know crawls over him and reaches across to pick up the empty bottle by Harry’s side.

She holds it up with a grin, and says, “Spin the bottle?”

Harry wants to complain because he’s not at all in the mood for spin the bottle, he’s _miserable_ , can nobody _see_ that? Except it doesn’t really matter because people start gathering in a circle and Louis sits down opposite him, and Harry thinks: _oh, okay, maybe I’ll play_.

Louis makes out with Liam, and then Niall, and a ton of people that Harry doesn’t know. He makes out with Eleanor, too, and in Harry’s honest opinion for a lot _longer_ than necessary. Harry glares at the both of them but Louis doesn’t seem to notice and Eleanor just rolls her eyes at him a bit sympathetically, and Harry realises he is being a bit ridiculous. It’s _spin the bottle_ for god’s sake, he has no reason to be _jealous_.

They spin for a while longer and Harry’s relatively sure he makes out with nearly _everyone_ —including Stan, which is all kinds of awkward. Louis thinks it’s hilarious though and Harry gets so lost in his smile that it takes him a while to notice that Louis’ spin has landed on _him_.

Everyone looks between them expectantly—Liam looks a lot like he’s bracing for a storm. Harry doesn’t move though and just stares at Louis, daring _him_ to.

Louis does; he crawls across the floor and all but climbs on top of Harry before sliding their lips together, slowly. It’s all a bit blurry around the edges because Harry’s had quite a lot of whiskey—but it’s different to last time, he thinks.

Louis settles down on his lap and licks into his mouth without any hesitation. He tastes like a mixture of whiskey and beer and Harry realises a bit belatedly that Louis’ probably very drunk, too. Harry thinks that this is good – _better_ – and bites at Louis’ bottom lip, and then he doesn’t think of anything much at all because Louis grinds his hips down and—well, _fuck._

Someone wolf-whistles – _Niall_ , probably – and Liam says, “Wow, slow down,” and Harry’s vaguely aware of Stan musing in the background, “I’m going to take a guess and say this probably isn’t the first time they’ve done this.”

Louis pulls back for a second and says, “Fuck off,” and then they’re kissing again, all tongue and teeth and hands, and Harry eventually has to pull away because if he doesn’t he’s probably going to get off in a room full of people, a lot of whom he doesn’t even _know_.

Louis’ pants against his shoulder for a moment then pulls himself off of him, licking his lips. Harry tries not to track the movement but he really can’t help it—it’s a wonder he manages to _not_ lean back in and just kiss him again and fuck the consequences.

When Louis looks up his eyes are wide and his hair’s all mussed up and Harry wants to cry. He needs some air, he thinks. “I need some air,” he announces, and then he’s scrambling up off the floor and onto the balcony.

He leans against the cold railing and shivers; he’d forgotten it’s winter. He breathes for a long moment before the balcony door opens behind him and then sucks in a sharp breath. It’s only Zayn though so he lets it go.

“That was a bit intense, mate,” Zayn says, leaning next to him on the railing and lighting up a cigarette.

Harry covers his face with his hands. “ _Shit_ ,” he says, then looks at Zayn and asks, “Can I have one?”

“You don’t smoke,” Zayn points out.

“No,” Harry agrees. “Just when I’m drunk.”

Zayn shrugs and offers him the packet and a lighter. Harry takes one gratefully; he lights it up and inhales slowly, feeling it burn down his throat.

They smoke in silence for a while until Zayn says, “You should talk to Louis; he looked a bit terrified when you left.”

“Did he?” Harry asks, confused.

Zayn nods. “You should probably tell him that you don’t hate him, too, because he thinks you do.”

Harry groans, taking a long burning drag.

“Do you want me to send him out?” Zayn asks.

Harry smiles at him gratefully. “In a minute,” he says, “let me finish this first.”

Zayn nods. He flicks his cigarette end over the balcony then pulls Harry into a tight hug before disappearing back inside.

Harry’s just smoking the last of the cigarette when he hears the door open again; he tosses it quickly over the side and turns around to smile at Louis.

“Sorry,” Louis says. He looks as unsteady on his feet as Harry feels, which is kind of comforting.

“I don’t hate you,” Harry says quickly, because he remembers Zayn said he should tell him that. “I really, really don’t hate you.”

Louis laughs and sways a bit against the railing.

“Actually,” Harry says seriously, “I kind of like you. A lot.”

Louis stares at him, his eyes soft and a bit questioning. “You seemed sort of upset,” he says slowly. “And you’ve been avoiding me, so I thought—”

“I do stupid, backward things when I like someone,” Harry cuts in. He really wants another cigarette. Maybe more alcohol, too. “I’m a bit fucked up.”

Louis takes a shaky step forward until there’s only a few inches between them. He leans up a little and presses a slow, closed-mouth kiss to Harry’s lips. Harry wants more; he wants to kiss him for possibly the rest of his life.

But he’s drunk and he has things to _say_.

He digs his nails into his palms and says, “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Louis gives him a look that says _and I do?_ Harry shrugs, leaning further towards him.

“You just—you make me _feel_ things. Real things,” he mumbles, falling over the words; he feels completely all over the place and he’s not even sure it’s the alcohol. He’s probably wording this all _wrong_. “It’s scary as fuck, actually.”

Louis stares and doesn’t say anything, and he keeps staring and _not saying anything_ until Harry thinks: _fuck it_ , and leans down and kisses him properly. Louis digs his fingers into Harry’s hip and pulls him closer and lets Harry slowly lick his mouth open.

Harry doesn’t know how long they stand there kissing like that; eventually they’re startled by people yelling drunkenly inside and Louis jerks back a little, breathing heavy. They breathe for a long moment, until Louis pulls back and says, “We should talk about this is the morning, probably, when we’re… soberer?”

Harry huffs out a laugh and lets his head fall against Louis’ shoulder. “Yeah,” he breathes.

When they go back inside nobody bats an eyelid, all too busy arguing over a DVD to put on. Harry’s a bit grateful. Liam manages to catch his eye with a sort of _do you want to talk?_ look but Harry just shrugs and shakes his head.

Niall comes up then and throws his arms around both Harry and Louis. “Alright lads?” he slurs happily. “We’re gonna play a James Bond drinking game? You in?”

Harry just shrugs and says, “Why not?”

-

Harry wakes up in his own bed – he’s not entirely sure how he even got there because last he remembers he was on the _floor_ in front of the telly cursing James Bond. He’s glad he did get there, though.

He sits up and almost jumps right out of bed; Louis’ sitting on the end of the bed holding a mug of what looks like tea. His eyes are sympathetic but Harry doesn’t miss the wariness in his expression either, his lips curling into a guarded smile.

Harry closes his eyes and tries very hard not to think about Louis’ lips. Or the way he _tastes_.

“Sorry,” Louis laughs, “didn’t mean to scare the shit out of you.”

Harry just waves dismissively and eyes the tea because his throat feels raw and really, really _gross_.

“Oh,” Louis says, and hands it to him kindly.

Harry means to say _thank you_ but he just makes a sort of _ugh_ sound before gulping some down.

“Why do you look alive and _not dead_?” he asks suspiciously when his voice works again. He’s quite sure Louis had a lot to drink – maybe not as much as he did but still _a lot_ – and he looks _perky_. Even the bags under his eyes aren’t that bad. It’s not at all fair, Louis shouldn’t be allowed to look so fucking beautiful even hungover.

“Made Liam make me a fry-up,” Louis says with a grin, crossing his legs and shuffling up a bit. “Much better for it.”

Harry feels incredibly sick at the thought of any food right now.

 “About last night,” Louis starts, his voice quieter than Harry’s probably ever heard it.

It’s a bit alarming, and Harry frowns and panics then immediately feigns confusion because right now that’s apparently the only half-decent plan he _has_. “What about it?”

“We should probably just be friends, do you not think?” Louis asks.

He can’t seem to meet Harry’s eyes for any longer than two seconds and he looks a lot like he might cry. Harry feels a lot like _he_ might cry, but he’s just going to blame the immobilising hangover for that one.

“What?” Harry tries blankly.

“Wow,” Louis says, and he laughs a little dryly. “You don’t remember, do you?”

Harry has to try very hard not to look relieved and shakes his head. “Did I… do something?”

“Nope, not at all,” Louis says. He smiles but Harry can tell it’s his Putting On A Happy Face smile. A huge part of him wants to say _sod it_ and maybe kiss Louis a bit. A _lot_. But then _Louis’_ the one who decided they should just be friends, so it’s probably better Harry doesn’t kiss him again anyway.

He twists his face instead and says, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Forget it, mate, it’s fine,” Louis says easily; Harry forgets sometimes just how good Louis is at lying. “Anyway, I promised mum I’d help her clean the hamster cages today, so I’m gonna head off.”

“Okay,” Harry says, kicking off the duvet clumsily and sitting up.

Louis lays his hand carefully over the bottom of Harry’s legs and pats them gently. “You don’t have to get up, mate. I can show myself out. Just get some sleep, okay?”

Harry’s about to huff and put on his Sad Eyes when Louis leans down and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. His hands are warm briefly on Harry’s cheeks and it’s friendly, Harry thinks. It’s far too brief and casual to be anything but, probably. But it startles Harry and he can do nothing but stare at Louis’ back as he leaves and mumbles a, “Text you later,” over his shoulder.

-

Harry expects everything to change after that, but Louis calls two days later and asks if he wants to go to the cinema as if nothing’s different. Harry thinks about saying no but avoidance didn’t at all work last time so he’s quite sure it won’t work this time, either.

They see a bit of a gory film that probably neither of them care about. It’s pretty standard horror and Harry doesn’t pay much attention.

Around halfway through the film Louis tangles their fingers together and keeps a tight hold until it’s finished. Harry’s confused; he doesn’t think it’s anything to do with Louis’ being scared because he looks entirely just as fucking bored of the film as Harry—but he doesn’t understand what _else_ it would be.

Harry just holds on and tries to focus on the people being torn to shreds onscreen.

Louis holds Harry’s hand all the way home, too, though, and by the time they get back to the flat Harry’s so fucking _confused_ he’s forgotten completely that he’s supposed to be having dinner with Gemma in about an hour.

“Shit,” he says as Louis’ kicking off his shoes and trying to drag him into the living room. He’d promised to make Harry watch _One Tree Hill_.

Louis stops midway. “What?”

“I have to go. I completely forgot I’m having dinner with Gemma,” Harry groans.

Louis looks a bit disappointed. He sticks his lip out in a little pout and Harry wants to lean over and kiss the disappointment right off his face. He doesn’t know if that would be okay though; he’s 99.9% sure that they just went on a _date,_ but Louis also told him not two days ago that they should probably just be friends.

Harry’s beginning to feel a bit like a yo-yo.

“You could come too, if you want?” Harry asks, because he’s hard-pressed to find reason why they shouldn’t just add _meet the family_ to this day.

Louis shakes his head, though. “It’s alright; you should have your family time. I can just go home.”

“Stay here,” Harry says. He reaches out almost to grab Louis’ hand but then thinks better of it. “Zayn and Liam will be home soon, anyway. Just tell them you’re waiting for me.”

Louis looks considering for a moment, then shrugs. “Okay.”

-

Harry’s a little bit late to the restaurant and feels horribly underdressed, but Gemma just looks pleased enough that he’s _there_ and waves a dismissive hand when Harry apologises.

“I ordered a starter for you,” she tells him, sipping on a glass of red. “And a pint.”

“Cheers,” Harry says thankfully, and takes a swig.

Gemma stares at him for a long moment with narrowed eyes, and then says apropos of _nothing_ , “Liam says you’ve met someone.”

Harry takes another swig of his pint and frowns a bit angrily. “You talk to _Liam_?”

“Just on Facebook sometimes,” she says with a shrug, picking up a bread roll from the basket.

Harry frowns some more and makes a mental note to tell Liam to stop interfering with his life no matter how helpful he thinks he’s being. He considers texting him now in case he forgets.

“So you’ve been checking up on me?” he asks plainly, though it’s not exactly a question.

“Yes,” Gemma says, smiling. Well, at least she’s honest about it, Harry supposes. “So have you?”

“What?” he asks.

Gemma rolls her eyes, pausing the buttering of her bread. “ _Met someone_ ,” she says impatiently.

Oh. “His name’s Louis,” Harry says slowly, “and we’re just _mates_.”

Gemma nods knowingly; Harry really hates how well she knows him sometimes. “But you want to be more.”

“ _Gem_ ,” Harry says exasperatedly, just as the waiter arrives and sets down their starters. Harry stares at it, not even quite sure what it is. He picks up his fork anyway.

“Fine, fine,” Gemma says with an infuriating smile when the waiter’s gone, “we don’t have to talk about it.”

“No,” Harry agrees, stabbing his fork into what he now thinks is _fish_ , “we don’t.”

Gemma rolls her eyes but she lets it slide, and they eat in companionable silence. When they’re done – it was _nice_ , whatever it was, Harry thinks – Gemma asks, “So, what do you want for Christmas?”

Harry frowns. “What?”

“Christmas,” she repeats, like she’s talking to a small child. Harry quite resents that. “It’s in three weeks, what do you want?”

Harry’s still a bit stuck on being confused, honestly. “We’re still doing _Christmas_?”

Gemma makes an indignant sound. “Of course we are. Well, _we_ are. I wouldn’t know what you do with your Christmases anymore, would I?”

Harry flinches a bit at that. “Ouch,” he says.

Gemma doesn’t apologise though. Harry supposes she doesn’t have to. She just says an expectant, “Well?”

“I don’t want anything.” Harry shrugs. Honestly, he’d forgotten about Christmas completely. “I’m not celebrating Christmas when mum’s in a _coma_.”

Gemma’s eyes get a bit sad then, and she says carefully, “She’d want us to.”

“How do you know what she’d want?” Harry asks; no one knows what she wants anymore because—“She’s _unconscious_.”

“Well I’d know a whole lot better than you,” Gemma points out icily. “I’ve actually seen her in the past two years.”

Harry probably deserved that, but it stings. “Gem—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, cutting him off. “We’ll just do it without you. We’re getting used to that anyway.”

Harry sighs, feeling a lot like the worst person in the world. “ _Call of Duty_ ,” he says quietly.

“What?” Gemma asks, looking up hopefully. Harry wants to hug her.

“The new _Call of Duty_ game. If that’s okay?” he elaborates.

Gemma’s face breaks out into a real, warm smile. “Yeah, that’s okay,” she says, reaching across the table and holding onto Harry’s hand.

“I’ll even help you cook dinner,” he says with a grin, and Gemma just laughs—if Harry notices a little tear in her eye, he doesn’t point it out.

They’re just finishing up dessert and waiting on the bill when Gemma fishes around in her bag and pulls out a set of keys – there’s a dog keyring attached that Harry recognises.

“Robin gave me the keys to the bungalow,” Gemma says, setting the keys down on the table and then sliding them across with a horrible scratching noise. “He told me to take a break, maybe get away for the weekend.”

Harry stares down at the keys in front of him, confused. “It’ll probably be good for you, he agrees slowly. “You spend nearly as much time at the hospital as _mum_.”

Gemma levels him with a _look_ , fork hovering over her cheesecake. “Exactly,” she says, “I can’t leave her. Just—you take them, yeah? It’ll probably be good for _you_ ; I know how you get. Take this Louis of yours, maybe.”

“He’s not _my_ Louis,” Harry argues with a roll of his eyes.

Gemma grins. “Yet.”

Harry makes a face. “Oh my god, would you shut up? We’re not talking about this.”

Gemma does shut up, but her eyes are twinkling and knowing right up until they leave, and Harry thinks he spends at least 90% of his time glaring resentfully at her.

-

When Harry returns to the flat Louis’ still there and watching one of _The Lord of the Rings_ films with Liam and Zayn.

Zayn looks a lot like he’s falling asleep; he’s curled up at the bottom of the sofa and his eyes are closing slowly and only opening again to send Louis and Liam various disapproving looks.

Louis’ giggling into Liam’s shoulder and Harry’s quite sure that Liam is quoting the film, but in _slow motion_. For a moment Harry stares, half-convinced that they’re drunk.

He moves from where he’d been standing by the door and Louis leaps up. “Hey,” he says, still giggling a bit. “How’d it go?”

Harry just shrugs. “It was good,” he says, then smiles. “Having fun?”

“Liam and I created a game,” Louis tells him proudly. Harry doesn’t think that explains anything at all, really.

“Replay,” Liam says tiredly.

“Liam and I created a game,” Louis says again, rolling his eyes.

“I meant it’s _called_ Replay,” Liam says, stretching across the sofa now that there’s more room and looking up at them.

Louis takes Harry’s hand and pulls him towards the sofa. Harry goes easily, too tired to care all that much, and Louis sits them both down on the floor in front of Liam.

“Whenever someone says Replay, you have to say what you just said again,” Louis explains, pulling Harry to lie against him. “We’ve been playing _Lord of the Rings_ Replay.”

Harry just shakes his head at them both, utterly confused. He’d been a bit worried Louis and Liam might not get on _at all_.

“Louis does a really good chipmunk voice,” Liam says, laughing again.

“Have I heard your chipmunk voice?” Harry mumbles against Louis’ lap. He’s not too sure.

“I don’t know,” Louis says thoughtfully. He brushes Harry’s hair out of his face and Harry closes his eyes and leans into his touch.

“Replay in a chipmunk voice,” Liam says from somewhere above them.

Louis makes a slightly indignant sound then says, “I don’t know,” in what is quite possibly the most bizarre voice Harry has ever heard.

He opens his eyes and bursts out a loud laugh. Louis looks down at him unamused. “Shut up.”

“Replay in a chipmunk voice,” Harry just says. Louis glares but does it and both Harry _and_ Liam giggle hysterically.

“Shut _up_ , you wankers,” Louis says grumpily. “I’ll never speak again, to either of you. Ever.”

“Replay Théoden’s line in a chipmunk voice,” Liam says amusedly.

Harry can’t stop giggling, and Louis looks a lot like he wants to throw him off the balcony. “I didn’t hear it,” Louis says.

Harry grins and picks up the control, helpfully skipping the DVD back; he thinks Louis actually _might_ throw him off the balcony now.

Louis listens and then sighs resignedly and says, “As long as you can give me,” high and squeaky.

Harry feels like he may genuinely choke on air, and Liam doesn’t look too far off either. Zayn’s still asleep at the bottom of the sofa, oblivious.

“Right, I’m leaving,” Louis announces crossly, frowning at all of them—even Zayn who hasn’t really done much of anything.

“Don’t,” Harry says seriously; he knows Louis’ joking but he still curls his fingers gently around his wrists to keep him there.

Louis meets his eyes, a small smile on his lips. “No more chipmunk voice.”

Liam looks a bit sad at that, but Harry nods and says, “No chipmunk voice.”

“Good,” Louis says, pulling his hands out of Harry’s grip, “I’m not a performing monkey put here for your entertainment, lads.”

Harry giggles, unable to stop himself. “You should join the circus,” he says, and Louis clips him around the head affectionately.

By the time Niall gets home from the pub, they’re about halfway through _The Return of the King_ and Harry is barely awake. He had wanted to ask about the bungalow but he doesn’t even think he can summon the energy to say _hello_ let alone have an actual conversation. Instead he just snuggles closer against Louis on the sofa and keeps his eyes closed—he can ask tomorrow.

-

Harry tells them over tea and toast at eight am the next morning. “Gem gave me the keys to the bungalow,” he says to the kitchen, reaching past Zayn to pick up his mug of tea.

“ _The_ bungalow?” Niall asks looking up from the slice of toast he’s been buttering. He waggles his eyebrows over at Zayn, and Harry doesn’t even want to _know_ what they used to get up to there.

“Yeah, that one,” Harry says, like there’s actually another one. “She told me to get away for a bit, so I was thinking—”

“ _Lads weekend_ ,” Niall finishes with a fist-pump, knocking his toast off his plate. It falls buttered-side down and Niall curses. Harry feels for him.

“Lads weekend?” Zayn asks, perking up a bit from where he’s hunched over his mug.

Harry’s not too sure this is exactly what Gemma had intended when she gave him the keys but he nods and says, “ _Lads weekend_. This weekend?”

“Well, I’m in,” Liam says sleepily, glancing up from his bowl of cereal at the kitchen table.

“Me, too,” Niall says. “Zayn?”

Zayn shrugs and leans against the kitchen counter looking thoughtful. “Is the pool still heated?” he asks seriously.

“I think so,” Harry says.

Zayn grins. “Then yeah, I’ll come.”

Harry turns to Louis, who’s been quite awfully and uncharacteristically quiet. He’s leaning against the kitchen radiator and staring at the floor almost like he thinks he’s not part of the conversation and Harry realises that maybe he _does_.

“You’re invited too,” Harry says, nudging his foot. “In fact I was told quite specifically that I have to take you.”

Louis huffs a little bit but not like he really means it. “So I’m only invited because you _have_ to take me.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’re invited because I _want_ to take you,” he says, leaning over and taking a bite out of the forgotten toast that’s dangling from Louis’ fingertips.

Louis slaps him away, grinning. “Oh, in that case then. I’m in, too.”

Harry wants to lean across and kiss him, so he does—chaste and soft on the corner of his mouth.

Louis blinks. “I best go home and pack, then,” he says.

“Yeah,” Harry says, “you best.”

-

Liam buys a shitload of food and Niall and Zayn both offer to drive, so Harry’s quite glad he invited them along after all. Louis brings alcohol and Niall throws him a high five while they’re loading up the car and says, “Louis’ my new favourite.”

Harry spends the entire journey asleep in the back on Louis, and when he opens his eyes and they’re pulling up outside, it’s pitch-dark despite it only being six pm, the winter night out in full force.

Niall shouts out, “Lads weekend!” when Harry gets the bungalow door open and they all drop their bags down in the hallway, and goes straight for the booze.

Harry says, “Get me and Louis one,” and pulls Louis through to the living room, flopping down onto one of the sofas and pulling him with him. He flicks on the massive telly and leaves it on 4music where Rihanna’s gyrating on some sort of animal—nothing out of the ordinary.

When Niall comes back with three beers and hands them two, Harry’s arguing the merits of Rihanna’s _Rated R_ with Louis who firmly believes it’s _not_ one of her best. Harry doesn’t even want to know him anymore.

Well, that’s a lie, but he doesn’t want to know him right _now_.

Louis almost falls over giggling at how serious Harry gets about it and eventually Harry’s forced to sulk for a minute then let it go.

“Where are Liam and Zayn?” Louis asks Niall, who’s sitting perched on the edge of their sofa.

Niall shrugs, staring at the telly where Justin Bieber’s _Boyfriend_ is on now. Harry rolls his eyes and kicks him hard in the thigh and Niall _yelps_.

“They’re getting the fire going outside,” he says after he’s glared at Harry for precisely two seconds.

It takes about half an hour for Liam and Zayn to wander through and announce proudly that they’ve finally got the fire going; Harry’s already nearing his third beer. He hides his face half in a cushion and half in Louis’ arm in the vague hope that he won’t have to move. Except Louis’ sitting them both up and Niall’s grabbing his guitar and Harry thinks: _alright_.

Harry’s been drunk around a campfire – it’s not really a campfire if they’re not _camping_ , is it? – quite a few times before, but he’s never been drunk around a campfire and singing the _Spice Girls_ before.

It’s entirely all Louis’ fault and he’ll take no blame.

They’re all halfway through a terrible version of _Viva Forever_ when Harry hears the noise.

There’s a long, awful groan that sounds a bit like someone’s dying slowly and horrifically, or maybe being tortured. Harry sits upright, startled, and accidentally elbows Louis a little bit.

“Ow,” Louis says.

“Did you hear that?” Harry asks. Quietly, just in case there actually _is_ a murderer about. Not that he thinks being quiet now would save them—they’ve just been belting out the bloody _Spice Girls_.

Zayn frowns at him. “Didn’t hear anything, mate.”

Harry’s about to lie back down and blame it on his fucked up without-meds brain when he hears it _again_ , and this time Louis sits up too.

“Okay, yeah, I heard that,” Louis says, slightly alarmed.

Harry twists around to peer out into the field behind him but it’s so dark he can’t even make out the fence. There could be numerous murders happening and he would be none the wiser, really.

“Do you think someone’s being murdered?” Harry asks, his tone hushed.

Louis giggles quietly. “Jesus, Haz, all that optimism must be crippling.”

Harry glares in the dark and prods him in the side.

“It sounds like someone dying,” Niall says, quietly placing his guitar down.

“It’s not someone _dying_ ,” Liam tells them, shaking his head at them all like they’re children. Harry momentarily wishes to clock him in the face.

“How do _you_ know?” Niall asks seriously. “Stuff like this happens all the time in the countryside. Like, madmen with chainsaws, or fucking zombies. Or those things in The Descent.”

“Yeah, in horror films, babe,” Zayn argues fondly.

“Some horror films are based on _true events_ ,” says Niall.

Zayn opens his mouth to probably counter some more and Louis asks the two of them, “Are you quite finished?”

Niall just makes a face.

“I can’t hear a chainsaw,” Harry says, shrugging. At least they can rule that one out.

Niall huffs. “Well, that was just an _example_.”

“There’s a big weird black shape,” Zayn says, and they all turn quickly to look at him. He’s standing further down the garden and pointing out with his cigarette. Harry has to blink because he’s sure Zayn wasn’t there a second ago.

“Oh, fuck off,” says Niall, scrunching up his face all offended-like, “don’t take the piss.”

“I’m not,” Zayn says, pointing. “Come and fucking _look_.”

Niall looks at Liam, who shrugs and looks at Harry. Harry just shakes his head. It’s probably not a chainsaw-wielding madman or zombies or whatever those creatures in The Descent actually were called, but Harry’s off his anxiety meds so he doesn’t think he’s in any fit state to participate in this particular horror film. He wants to go to _bed_ and cuddle with Louis.

It’s Louis who eventually goes to look, though; he rolls his eyes and exasperatedly says, “Bunch of pansies, the lot of you,” and then paces over to Zayn, leaning past him to look out into the darkness.

“It’s probably just a cow,” Louis says calmly after a moment, shrugging.

“Go and check,” Niall tells him encouragingly.

“Why me? I’m the shortest.”

“Because you’re not _scared_ ,” Niall says like it’s obvious.

“Lou’s a pretty good liar, actually,” Harry says with a grin; Louis glares and swears at him.

“I’m not scared,” he protests, and Harry raises a sceptical eyebrow at him.

Liam huffs out an exasperated breath at them all. “Oh for god’s sake, I’ll go and have a look,” he says. Harry’s really quite proud to call him his best friend.

“I’ll come with you,” Louis says, levelling Harry with a look that clearly says: _see, I’m absolutely not scared_.

Harry watches from by the fire with Niall and Zayn while Liam and Louis trek across the field. It’s dark as hell and all they have are the torches on their phones, so all Harry can really see is the light bouncing around.

Eventually, he can hear Liam shouting, “Is there anyone there? Does anyone need help?”

“Classic horror movie mistake. Now the killer knows our fucking location,” Niall says, and Harry can’t even tell whether he’s being serious or not.

“Liam’ll die first,” Zayn says, smoking calmly. “He’s too trusting.”

Harry frowns. “Or Louis’ll sacrifice himself and die first because he’s too _noble_.”

Zayn laughs but he’s cut short by the awful _dying sound_ , and Harry will gladly deny even under torture that any of them _scream_. They’re not really screams just sort of manly shouts, he thinks.

“Do you think they’re dead?” Niall whispers.

“No,” Harry says, squinting his eyes; he can see the bouncing light of their phones coming back across the field so he figures that they’re probably still alive. That or the killer stole their phones, but he doesn’t mention that.

“It was a cow, like I said,” Louis says when Harry can just about see him properly again.

“Did you see it?” Zayn asks.

“Well, no,” Liam says with a shrug. “But it sounded like a cow.”

Louis grins, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Liam went all the way up to the fence and everything.”

“Aw, our _hero_ ,” Zayn says, planting a wet kiss to Liam’s cheek.

Harry yawns and reaches out, tangling his fingers with Louis’. “If we’re all quite sure we’re not going to be killed in our sleep, can we go inside and sit down? I’m tired,” he says.

“I’ll make tea,” Liam offers, and they all mumble their agreement.

They’re all sitting in various positions on the sofa and the floor sipping quietly on steaming-hot tea when Niall says, “Not being funny lads, but maybe we should all just sleep together in here tonight? Just in case.”

“It was a _cow_ ,” Harry says tiredly, rolling his eyes and lolling his head to the side a bit to rest on Louis’ shoulder where he’s curled up next to him on the floor. Louis manoeuvres his spare arm so it’s around Harry’s shoulders, and Harry can feel his fingers threading gently through his hair. He thinks he might be able to sleep right here, honestly.

“We didn’t actually _see_ the cow, though,” Louis points out.

Niall points at him with agreeing eyes. “Exactly, mate, exactly!”

“So,” Zayn says slowly, elongating the word. He sits up a little bit from where he’d been lying on Liam’s lap. “So, what, are we gonna drag our fucking _mattresses_ out here?”

Niall’s face lights up, and five minutes later Harry’s lifting one end of his mattress, with Louis at the other, and trying to turn it enough to fit it through the sodding _door_.

-

In the morning Harry and Louis go out into the field in the direction they had heard the noise and on the other side of the trees, there’s a field of cows.

-

Harry and Liam cook some of the food Liam had brought the next afternoon when everyone’s up and mostly alive, and they all pile together on the sofa for a movie marathon.

Zayn frowns, rifling through the DVD cabinet. “Why are there so many _Carry On..._ films?” he asks, confused.

Harry shrugs. “It’s my step-dad’s bungalow, not _mine_.”

“But why did they _make_ that many?” Zayn asks, and Harry’s a bit stumped on that one.

They end up watching _Carry On…_ anyway, but by the time they’re on the third one they’re all very bored and Harry turns it off and says, “Pool?”

Niall brings a crate of beer outside while they’re all stripping off. “It’s not a pool party without booze!”

“We should have got those weird red and blue plastic cups they have in America,” Louis says, “are American house parties _actually_ like that?”

Harry’s wondered that frequently himself, quite honestly.

Zayn dips his foot in the pool and draws back like he’s been burnt. “That pool is not fucking heated; you lied to me, Styles.”

Harry just rolls his eyes and Louis catches his gaze from the other side of the pool, a little mischievous glint in his eyes. Harry sees it happen in slow motion—Louis’ hands pushing against Zayn’s back and Zayn’s arms and legs flailing in the air as he falls into the pool.

Zayn splutters and coughs.

“Your _face_ ,” Niall exclaims, shaking with laughter and patting Louis on the back in what Harry thinks might be congratulatory.

Liam just giggles and says, “He’ll cry about his hair in a minute.”

Zayn glares and looks a lot like an angry drowned rat. He pulls himself out of the pool, dripping wet, and pulls Liam into a cold, damp hug. Liam yelps, trying to leap back.

Louis just hides behind Harry with a proud grin on his face. He’s clinging onto Harry’s waist and resting his face on his back, and Harry has to try hard not to shiver at the contact—skin against skin. He moves away to switch the heaters on.

They line up by the pool this time – “No pushing, wankers,” Zayn insists – and count to three before jumping in all at once. The water’s not too cold, it’s sort of refreshing, and Harry holds his breath for a good minute before surfacing.

When he does surface, Louis’ sitting on the side of the pool.

“Are you not coming in?” Harry asks, having to shout a bit because Niall and Liam are very loudly trying to dunk Zayn back under. “The water’s not that cold, mate.”

Louis shakes his head, smiling. “I’m alright here.”

Harry tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “Can you not swim?” he asks gently.

“Yeah,” Louis says, then laughs at himself. “No. I know, it’s fucking ridiculous. It’s a long story.”

Harry frowns. “It’s not deep,” he says, and then he outstretches his arms. “I promise I’ll save you from drowning.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Harry Styles, my knight in shining armour.”

“Shut up, stop being a twat,” Harry says. An _adorable_ twat, too, he thinks. But he doesn’t say that one. He keeps his arms outstretched and looks up at Louis expectedly.

“Alright,” Louis says. His eyes are still a bit wary but he slides down carefully into the water, and also Harry’s arms.

Harry opens his mouth to speak but gets a mouthful of water when Niall cannonballs just two feet away from them. Louis laughs at him brightly and wraps his arms around Harry to hold on, and Harry feels his entire body tense up—he wonders if Louis can feel it too.

He pulls Louis to the shallower end and they lean against the side of the pool, watching Liam, Niall and Zayn time each other on how long they can hold their breath underwater. _All of my friends are five_ , Harry thinks.

“What’s the long story?” Harry asks Louis.

Louis shrugs. “It’s not really a _long_ story. There was someone who was teaching me how to swim and then they… weren’t there anymore, so I forgot.”

Harry thinks there’s probably more to it than that, but he doesn’t get a chance to ask before Louis’ mercilessly dunking him under the water, his hands tangling in Harry’s hair. Harry gets water in his nose and mouth and when Louis lets him up for air, he coughs and says, “You bastard, did you just make all that up?”

Louis laughs, keeping hold of him while he tries to get his breath back. “No, I totally can’t swim at all. Just felt like dunking you.”

“I hate you,” Harry says, scraping his wet hair out of his face.

Louis grins and shakes his head. “No you don’t.”

“No,” Harry agrees, “I don’t.”

-

When they finally go back inside later, they all wrap up in towels and blankets and gather around the giant fireplace in the living room to keep warm. Harry flicks the telly on and puts it on _Magic_ – apparently they’re having a _mellow hour_ – and lies down on the fluffy-soft rug right in front of the fire.

Louis brings the crate of beer through and leaves it in the middle of the rug for everyone to help themselves and then lies down next to him.

“You’re shivering,” Louis says. In hindsight, swimming in a barely-heated pool in the middle of winter probably wasn’t the smartest of ideas.

“So are you,” Harry points out.

Louis looks down at the goosebumps on his arms and frowns and Harry doesn’t really think about it, just rolls over and pulls Louis against him—in some sort of attempt to warm them both up, he tells himself carefully.

“Better?” Harry murmurs, resting his chin softly against Louis’ head and closing his eyes.

Louis nods and curls his fingers into Harry’s arms, keeping them tight around him. “Much better.”

“Think we might just head off to bed,” Liam says from the sofa. Harry opens his eyes enough to see Liam pulling Niall up, and then Zayn—who looks a lot like he could probably fall asleep standing up.

“You sure we’re alright to split up tonight?” Harry asks, smiling. “What with the mass-murdering deformed creature that’s on the loose?”

Niall narrows his eyes and throws a cushion at him, which just narrowly misses Louis’ head. Louis doesn’t really seem to notice though.

“Fuck off,” Niall says, “everyone _agreed_ with me.”

Harry just laughs and blows him an exaggerated kiss. They all mumble their goodnights and Harry’s quite sure that Niall actually _winks_ at them both before he goes, but he could well just be imagining it—he’s exhausted.

Harry sinks back further into the rug, Louis’ head still buried somewhere in his chest; he thinks they should maybe move to the sofa, but he’s not entirely sure Louis’ awake enough to do even that. Or if _he_ is.

He’s just closing his own eyes, the warmth of the fire and Louis lulling him to sleep when Louis mumbles a quiet, “It _is_ a bit of a long story.”

Harry frowns. “The swimming?” he asks.

Louis nods against his chest. “That and everything else, too,” he says, then tiredly: “My dad left too, you know.”

There’s a long, palpable silence, and then Harry sits up and forces Louis to move with him. Louis doesn’t quite meet his eyes though. “Is that why you lie?” Harry asks carefully.

“Gill – that’s my psychiatrist, she always smells of cats – says it’s because I spent so much of my childhood lying,” Louis says quickly. He moves back and distances himself enough so Harry can see him properly. “Like, when I was five and my friends at school asked why I didn’t have a dad, I lied and told them he was a superhero and that I couldn’t see him very much because he was saving the world.”

He looks terribly _sad_ in a way that Harry’s never quite seen him before and it twists around in Harry’s chest—he wants to reach out. He wants to tell him that he knows that feeling of worthlessness. That the only thing he remembers feeling before he couldn’t feel anymore was _unwanted_. He wants to say so much but the words are lodged in his throat. He thinks Louis might know all that anyway, though.

“She says it’s because of that and years of telling everyone I was okay with it and it didn’t matter and I didn’t need him,” Louis continues. He still doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “She’s probably right, or maybe there’s just not even a reason. Old habits die hard or something.”

Harry breathes out heavily. He wants to crawl over to Louis and pull him back into his arms but instead he finds himself asking, “How do I know you’re telling the truth now?”

Louis meets his eyes properly then. “Because I haven’t told you a lie in five days,” he says sincerely.

Harry frowns, shuffling forward slightly so they’re closer again. “Oh. Really?”

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Louis says, staring down at where their knees are almost-touching.

Harry scrunches up his face a bit, trying to remember. “What’d you tell me five days ago?”

Louis shrugs. “That I just want us to be friends.”

Harry’s not quite sure what to make of that. He stares for a long moment and then asks blankly, “You don’t want us to be friends?”

Louis rolls his eyes and reaches out to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Don’t be _dense_ , Harold,” he says.

Harry frowns, and Louis pulls the blanket tighter around him and gives Harry a bit of an odd look—for a second Harry thinks Louis might kiss him, but then he just leans back and says, “Just forget it,” his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Harry shakes his head. “Lou—”

“Let’s just go to bed, okay?” Louis interrupts quickly, and he’s standing up before Harry even has the chance to protest.

“Okay,” Harry agrees quietly.

Louis offers his hand and Harry grabs a hold to pull himself up; Louis doesn’t quite let go though, still holding on loosely with his fingers when they go through to the bedroom. When he does let go, he gets this look on his face like he hadn’t even realised he’d still been holding on.

Harry wants to reach back out, wants to pull him back and hold his hand some more, and probably lots of other things too. Instead he just crawls into bed and buries himself deep under the covers.

When Louis crawls under too, he wraps himself around Harry without a word; he flings his arm over Harry’s chest and presses his face into his shoulder, and Harry has to remember how to do the simplest of things, like _breathe_.

He closes his eyes and takes in a breath, trying to shift just a little bit. But Louis won’t budge, and Harry can feel his breath warm on his shoulder and his hand trailing absently up his side and—

“What did you mean before?” he asks quietly.

For a long while there’s silence; all Harry can hear is the wind outside and he thinks Louis must be asleep. Until there’s a small, “Before what?”

Harry rolls his eyes and moves from under Louis’ arm, twisting around and sitting up a bit to prop his chin against his hand. Louis pouts a little at the loss of contact.

“You know what I mean,” Harry says.

Louis sinks back into the pillows, not looking at him, and says quietly, “It doesn’t matter.”

It _does_ though, Harry thinks. “I lied,” he says. Louis looks at him then and narrows his eyes. Harry prods him in the shoulder. “Shut up, I’m allowed to lie too, you know.”

Louis laughs. “Okay. About what?”

“After the party, when I said I didn’t remember,” Harry answers, and then adds: “I remembered,” because if he’s going to do this, he going to _do this_.

Louis stares at him, unblinking. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_.”

Louis sits up, and Harry can just about make out his confused expression in the dark. He hesitates before leaning over to turn the little lamp on.

“Why?” asks Louis.

Harry sighs. “I don’t know.” Because he didn’t know that it was possible to feel _this much_ until Louis, maybe. He doesn’t know how to say that though. “Probably because you said you just wanted to be friends.”

“But I totally lied,” Louis says, like Harry should have known. Harry thinks sometimes that Louis doesn’t even know how good he is at lying.

“But I didn’t _know_ that,” Harry tells him. “I don’t have a device that lets me know what’s a lie and what isn’t. I’m not—”

“Shut up,” Louis cuts in, putting his finger to Harry’s lips; it’s not a cruel gesture though, more of a _polite request_.

“What?” Harry asks blankly against his finger.

Louis takes his finger away slowly and moves his hand to Harry’s cheek instead, resting it there for a moment before tangling it in his hair.

“Shut up,” he says again softly, and then Harry’s reply gets a little lost on Louis’ lips.

Harry meets him halfway. Or maybe it’s a quarter of the way, but he kisses him back all the same. It’s chaste and so very _soft_ , a bit like Louis’ testing the waters, and he pulls away all too soon. Harry sort of wants to file a complaint and list of all the reasons why they should _keep kissing_.

“Are you going to pretend to forget this tomorrow?” Louis breathes, like he needs to be sure before he can continue.

Harry frowns. “I’m not drunk,” he points out, because he’s definitely not; he only had a bottle, maybe not even that.

“No,” Louis agrees, “but you could, like, feign amnesia or something.”

Harry stares at him and tries hard not to laugh, because Louis looks genuinely worried that Harry feigning amnesia is an _actual possibility_ and confirms as much when he says with wide eyes, “Please don’t feign amnesia.”

This time it’s Harry who says, “Shut up,” and bridges the gap.

Louis makes a small surprised sound like he hadn’t been expecting it, but he opens his mouth easily and pulls Harry down. Louis tastes a bit like chlorine and faintly of beer, too, and Harry licks over the taste again and again until Louis’ curling his fingers into Harry’s hair and hooking his legs over the back of Harry’s so there’s very little space separating them.

Harry slides his hands up over Louis’ chest and feels his skin flutter—he wants to touch him everywhere, has been wanting to for a while and it’s still a bit mad that he can and that he _always_ could have, and it feels like Louis’ teasing him a bit with the way he’s kissing Harry: hard and frantic and then soft and agonisingly slow. Harry can’t breathe but at the same time he thinks that if he stops he’ll be able to breathe a lot _less_. He breathes in every movement and flutter of Louis’ chest, every slick kiss and flick of Louis’ tongue and every little noise Louis makes when Harry dips his hands a bit lower.

Harry gasps away when Louis somehow manages to work his hands down to grip his arse and push and pull their hips flush together—he has to bury his face into Louis’ neck for a moment, breathing hard and matching the slow grind of Louis’ hips.

Louis takes advantage of his brief loss of control and flips them over, pushing Harry down into the mattress and rolling his hips down, and Harry groans. He wants to open his eyes, wants to see the look on Louis’ face, but then Louis’ working his hand between them and palming him through his boxer shorts and Harry just squeezes them shut tighter.

“Can I?” Louis breathes, like he’s still not completely sure this is what Harry wants—that _he’s_ what Harry wants. Harry would roll his eyes and smack him over the head if he didn’t need him to be touching him right the fuck now.

“Yes, _fuck_ ,” he mumbles, jerking his hips up into Louis’ hand. “Yeah.”

Louis doesn’t waste any time, then; he leans forward and kisses Harry hard and fast and breathless before sliding down, pulling off his boxers and sucking Harry into his mouth all in one swift movement.

Harry swears loudly and tries not to push his hips up too much; he bites hard on his lip, and he has to open his eyes—has to _see_. He sort of wishes he didn’t as soon as he does though, because _fuck—_ the way Louis’ lips wrap around him and his cheeks hollow, and the way his forehead creases in concentration like he wants to make this fucking perfect for Harry.

Harry bites out a moan and slides his hands down into Louis’ hair for no other reason than he needs to be touching him somehow. He keeps looking, keeps watching as Louis sucks him down again and again.

“God, Lou,” Harry breathes. Louis opens his eyes then and looks up at him through his eyelashes and Harry comes with a choking gasp, not expecting it.

He can’t seem to get enough air in his lungs and Louis keeps licking and sucking him softly through it until Harry’s shaking, oversensitive.

“Sorry,” he manages when he can breathe. But Louis doesn’t seem to mind, licking a drop of come from his chin before crawling up and kissing Harry messily. Harry can taste himself in Louis’ mouth.

He licks the tastes away and nips lazily at Louis’ lips until Louis’ whining and curling around him, rutting against him. “What do you want?” Harry murmurs.

“Just—” Louis says, dragging Harry’s hand down past the waistband of his boxers and curling his fingers around his dick.

Harry starts slow until Louis’ jerking his hips up frantically to match his rhythm and he speeds up, twisting his hand at the tip and thumbing over the slit, and Louis moans softly against Harry’s shoulder and spills all over his stomach and Harry’s hand. Harry rolls him over so he can kiss him properly through it, and Louis just holds him there, panting against his lips.

Harry moves to grab something for Louis to clean up with, but Louis shakes his head and won’t let him go. “Nope. Cuddle now,” he says, still a bit breathless. He runs his hand over the mess on his stomach and wipes it on the sheets and then just looks at Harry sleepy and expectantly.

Harry can’t say no to that and Louis pulls him down so he’s lying against his shoulder and tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair.

Harry presses his lips to Louis’ neck in a soft kiss and says, “Night.”

Louis just tightens his hold, and Harry doesn’t even care about the mess—he’ll care in the morning.

Right now, he wants to _cuddle_.

-

When Harry wakes up far too early in the morning – it’s still dark, not even the vaguest hint of daylight coming in through the curtains – Louis’ not there. He tries not to panic; they’re in a bungalow in the middle of _nowhere_ so he couldn’t possibly have gone far since there’s not really anywhere to run _to_.

Harry lies and squints in the darkness for a while before deciding that he’s probably not going to sleep much more with Louis not there, so he drags himself up and out of bed, grabbing a t-shirt from the floor which may or may not be clean—he’s not really sure.

He finds Louis in the kitchen, staring at the kettle; it’s one of those ones that changes colour when it boils and Harry finds himself transfixed for a minute, too.

“It’s early,” Harry says finally, diverting his eyes from the kettle to Louis.

Louis startles a bit, jerking his head around. He looks tired and worried and he’s biting at his lip, but he smiles. “Hey. Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Sort of,” Harry says, padding over to pull a mug off the shelf and set it down next to Louis’. He leans against the counter by Louis who looks vaguely worried like he still thinks Harry might feign amnesia. Harry had been quite sure they’d cleared that one up.

“It’s more you not being there woke me,” he continues lamely, and Louis smiles properly then.

The kettle clicks to announce it’s finally boiled but Louis just ignores it and leans across and kisses Harry softly. When he moves to pull away Harry keeps him there, curling his fingers into Louis’ waist and nudging his mouth open a little. He can feel Louis smile before he kisses him back, slow and lazy.

“Sorry,” Louis says when they break apart, just a small amount of space between them. “From now on I shall stay in bed until you wake up too, okay?”

Harry feels his chest tighten at the implication that this is going to be a thing that happens quite a lot, but he tries to ignore it—just smiles and kisses Louis again briefly before letting him go to make the tea.

“Did I hear a kettle boil?” a voice says behind them. Harry turns around to find the source is a very tired Liam standing by the kitchen door – Harry would swear on the lives of his entire family that Liam has some sort of _supersonic kettle-hearing skills_.

“Why is everyone up at the arse-crack of dawn? We’re supposed to be on a _break_ ,” Harry complains, because Liam’s staring fondly between him and Louis like he’s going to start telling them how _happy_ he is for them and how _wonderful_ they are together.

Liam shrugs and wanders over to sit on a stool. “Niall and Zayn are still dead to the world.”

That doesn’t surprise Harry in the slightest, honestly; he thinks you’d probably be hard-pressed to get either of them up in the middle of an _apocalypse_.

Harry makes a face and then gets down a mug for Liam, too. He sets it down for Louis who flashes him a warm smile that makes Harry’s heart ache, before slumping down into the stool next to Liam.

They watch in comfortable silence while Louis makes the tea; Louis grimaces and complains when Liam tells him how many sugars he has and Harry inexplicably wants to kiss him—he’s not sure why, he doesn’t have any particularly strong feelings about sugar in tea. He suspects he may have to just accept that wanting to kiss Louis _all of the time_ is something he’s going to have to live with.

There are much worse things, he supposes.

He sort of wants to talk to Louis and make sure they’re both on the same page – he thinks they probably are but Harry has a habit of worrying too much – but he doesn’t really get a chance. The three of them wind up talking until Zayn and Niall surface later, begging for tea, and from there it ends up being a morning of regaling tales from high school and everyone embarrassing Harry as much as they can—or, well, they would, if Harry were easily embarrassed, which he’s really not.

He just shrugs a lot and rolls his eyes, particularly when Zayn brings up that time Harry ran naked down the school corridor for a dare. _Twice_.

Harry doesn’t get much of a chance to talk to him after that, either; instead they spend the rest of the morning packing and loading up the car because they need to be back in time for Niall’s shift at the pub, and Zayn’s been banging on about a painting he wants to finish.

Louis sleeps on him most of the way home. He curls himself around Harry and tucks his head into his shoulder and he’s out before they’ve even left the countrylane. Harry presses a gentle kiss to his head and Liam catches his eye from the other side of the car, his eyes smiling. Harry can’t help but smile back.

Louis only stirs when they stop at a service station so Niall and Liam can switch for Liam to drive for a bit – Liam’s only just learning and Niall’s apparently decided this is the perfect opportunity to practice.

“So are we all going to die now?” Harry quips, grinning at Liam.

Liam frowns and looks a little bit affronted. “Shut up,” he says, making a face and then throwing a water bottle at Harry.

The bottle’s not particularly heavy – it’s fucking empty – but it hits Harry in the head and he yelps a little bit, jerking back.

Liam laughs and Louis jolts up sleepily from where he’d been resting against Harry’s side and points an accusatory finger at him. “Hey, don’t throw things at my boyfriend,” he mumbles.

The car immediately falls silent, and Liam shuts his mouth and looks horribly like he’s going to burst into startled happy tears _on Harry’s behalf_.

Harry doesn’t say anything; the words are stuck in his throat but he doesn’t even know what the words are. He’s not sure Louis has even realised what he's _said_.

“Replay, Louis,” Liam says from next to Harry, and Harry’s not sure whether he wants to punch him for it or not.

But then Louis mumbles again quietly, “Hey, don’t throw things at my boyfriend,” with just a little more emphasis, and Harry thinks he maybe won’t punch Liam, after all.

-

Louis’ the first to be dropped off home. He’s not long woken up so he stumbles a bit sleepily out of the car and Harry follows him out to give him a hand with the boot.

Harry’s just about to close the boot and say goodbye when Louis looks up at him, stepping just a little bit closer and asks, “Do you want to come in?”

“For… not-sex?” Harry asks carefully, trying not to grin.

Louis laughs brightly and pulls on his sleeve. “Oh, _definitely_ for sex,” he says and drags Harry into a firm kiss.

They kiss until Zayn shouts out, “Get a fucking room, some of us want to go _home_.”

Harry giggles against Louis’ lips then pulls away and waves an apology to Zayn and the others before grabbing his bag and shutting the boot.

Zayn beeps them goodbye, and Harry finds the two minutes it takes to get in the house, dump their stuff and stumble up to Louis’ room the longest two minutes of his fucking life.

Later, when Harry’s lazily drawing squiggly lines against Louis’ chest in bed, he asks, “Do you want to come visit my mum with me?”

Louis cranes his neck to look at him properly. “Are you sure?” he asks slowly.

“Yeah, I mean—not the best way to be introduced to her, I know,” Harry says, propping himself up a bit and resting his chin on Louis’ chest. “But maybe your voice’ll help. You have a nice voice.”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Louis says after a brief silence, then: “Oh shit, wait. I promised Stan I’d help with something this afternoon.”

“Oh,” Harry says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Well, no worries.”

Louis rolls his eyes, smiling. “You could come too,” he says, kissing Harry’s shoulder softly. “Actually, you should probably be there. Then we could visit your mum after?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, okay.”

-

They pick Stan up an hour later and drive to the park. Harry recognises it; it’s the same park Louis drove them to that night Harry had drunk-called him and demanded to be picked up. It looks a bit different during the day, less towering and expansive.

“We used to play here a lot when we were kids,” Stan explains when they get out the car, staring at it a little nostalgically.

Louis stares at it too then grins at Harry and grabs a tight hold of hand and says, “Come on.”

“What are we doing?” Harry asks, slightly confused.

“You’ll see,” Stan says, quite importantly, so Harry lets Louis drag him along.

They stop at the bottom of a rusty climbing frame and Stan pulls a small metal shovel out of his bag and starts _digging_. Louis watches happily and Harry’s completely confused and bit cold but he watches too as Stan battles with the frozen soil and digs a little hole at the base of the frame.

Finally the shovel hits something solid and Harry peers over, trying to look.

Stan pulls it out, and it’s nothing but a little metal tin with a picture of a football on the front. When he opens it up, he pulls out a small plastic bag with something inside it

“What is it?” Harry asks, still confused.

“It’s our lucky David Beckham footy card,” Louis says, slightly awed, like he can’t quite believe it’s still there.

Stan slips the card out of the bag and holds it up, and Louis says, “When we were little, we were fucking convinced this was the reason we won so many matches so we buried it so no one could steal it.”

“Yeah,” Stan says sarcastically, grinning a bit, “looking back, it was probably just our _sick skills_.”

Louis just punches him gently in the shoulder.

“You should have it,” Stan says, putting the card back in the little plastic bag and then handing it to Harry. Harry takes it wordlessly; it’s a little torn and frayed, but it’s kind of brilliant.

“You don’t want it?” he asks, frowning at them both.

Louis smiles and holds his hand tightly. “No. You need it more. You could give it to your mum— _we_ could, later.”

If Harry was not himself he thinks he would probably cry all over the _both_ of them. But as it is, he pulls Louis into a close, tight hug, and just doesn’t let go. “Thanks,” he whispers quietly, and then, “Get in on this, Stan.”

Stan just laughs and stretches his arms wide around them both.

When the heavens open and start tumbling out snow not ten minutes later, they’re sitting spinning on the park roundabout – not fast, but they’ve been doing it for long enough that Harry’s eyes are staring to blur a bit. The snow is thick and heavy like a blizzard, and Harry just looks up and stares. The wind is lashing it back and forth in different directions in the sky; it looks a lot like Harry feels, and he doesn’t look away until Louis’ grabbing his hand and pulling him up off the roundabout.

“Let’s go,” Louis says, digging around for his car keys, “before we fucking freeze.”

Harry makes to move but then shakes his head. His clothes and hair are getting covered in big snowflakes and the cold of it is stinging at his cheeks and hands, but it’s a nice feeling almost.

He moves away from the roundabout and starts climbing up the wooden castle—the one he’d wanted to explore the night he first kissed Louis. The wooden slats are a bit slippery from the snow and Harry can vaguely hear Stan loudly asking Louis, “What’s he _doing_?” but he ignores it all and keeps climbing.

When he gets to the top, he stretches his neck back so he can see nothing but the white of the sky and the blanket of snow falling; it looks so open and empty and Harry doesn’t really think about it, just opens his mouth and screams.

He screams and screams and keeps screaming and it feels like he’s filling up the emptiness. He stops for a moment to catch his breath and realises that Louis and Stan have climbed up too. Louis clings to his arm a little bit like he’s afraid Harry will fall, and then all three of them scream into the sky.

Harry doesn’t know how long they scream for but when they finally stop, breathing heavy, Louis stares at him; there’re flecks of snow in his hair and sticking to his eyelashes and his face is bright pink from the snow and the screaming.

Harry thinks: _I love you_ and leans forward and kisses him. He tries to tell Louis everything in just one kiss, everything he doesn’t think he can say—but he _feels_ it, he feels it all and he wants Louis to know that it’s because of him.

Louis presses his fingers into Harry’s neck and kisses back just as desperately, and Harry thinks that maybe Louis feels it all, too.

They kiss until Stan clears his throat loudly and says something about being a third wheel, and Louis giggles a bit and pulls away to say over his shoulder, “Sorry, mate.”

Harry briefly catches the look on Stan’s face – fond and happy and anything but annoyed – before Louis pulls him back in.

-

Louis stands close behind Harry when they go into his mum’s room; it’s quiet as always aside from the awful beeping of machines. Harry sits down in the chair closest to the bed and says, “I’ve brought someone to meet you, mum.”

Harry expects Louis to be a little awkward and uneasy about the whole thing, but he just drags the other chair closer and sits next to Harry and says softly, “Hey, Mrs Harry’s mum.”

Harry laughs, surprised, then offers a, “Anne.”

“Hello, Anne,” Louis corrects himself with a smile. He reaches out and briefly squeezes her hand, and Harry finds himself leaning over and pressing a small, thankful kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Harry lifts up the guitar he’s brought along – Niall’s guitar – and idly tunes it as Louis babbles away to his mum about how she has a very wonderful son. Harry almost wants to tell him to stop, because he’s really not all that wonderful – he left for two years – but he’s slightly floored by the emotion in Louis’ voice and the way his eyes twinkle, so he says nothing.

When he’s finally got the guitar tuned – or more _thinks_ he has because he’s not exactly brilliant at guitar, or any instrument for that matter – he waits for Louis to stop ridiculously waxing poetic, then says, “I thought I’d play something for her. The doctors said music might help.”

Louis just nods and smiles encouragingly, settling back into the chair.

Harry sings _Look After You_ ; he’s a little bit shaky and he’s not too sure of the chords, but he manages. Louis just stares for a long while, and Harry has to look down at the guitar in an effort to not get too distracted. He loses the words a little on the bridge – he’s still not really 100% on the lyrics, either – but Louis comes in quietly, picking up the parts that Harry blanks on. His voice is soft and so terribly quiet, but Harry can just about make it out.

They sing the last chorus together and Harry continues badly playing the guitar for a little while, strumming gently.

“You’re good, you know,” Harry says carefully.

Louis looks up at him with a small smile. “Not as good as you.”

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “Better.”

Louis huffs out a laugh and says, “Who’s the liar now, Harry Styles?”

“It’s my opinion,” Harry says, rolling his eyes a bit and still strumming. “I’m allowed to have one.”

“Yes, completely,” Louis agrees. He leans further off the side of his chair, looking Harry in the eyes. “But your opinion’s _wrong_.”

Harry narrows his own eyes and then gently places his guitar down by his chair. He stands up and walks carefully over to Louis; it’s strangely quiet now, his feet tapping against the shiny hospital floor. He leans down in front of Louis slowly and presses their lips together. It’s soft and deliberate and Louis kisses back and tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair for a moment.

“Much better,” Harry whispers against Louis’ lips, and he’s not sure he’s just talking about singing anymore.

Louis smiles and kisses him again, slow. Harry swipes his tongue over his lips just a little and Louis jerks back abruptly, his chair very nearly falling backwards and taking the both of them with it.

“Not in front of _your mum_ ,” Louis exclaims, giggling into Harry’s chest and dropping his hands down to Harry’s hips to help keep him steady.

“I don’t think she’d mind,” Harry says, smiling a bit. Louis rolls his eyes and kisses his smile briefly.

“Well, I don’t want the first thing your mum sees when she wakes up to be some random lad necking on with her son,” Louis says when he pulls back, and Harry can’t help but burst out a laugh.

“You’re not _some random lad_ ,” he replies.

Louis’ eyes soften but he jabs Harry in the arm with a finger and says, “I am to her!”

Harry shuffles around a bit so he can settle down on Louis’ lap; it’s not particularly comfortable, but he’s not sure he cares—he’ll care in five minutes when his leg goes numb. “Do you really think she’ll wake up?”

Louis stares up at him carefully, and then finally says, “Yeah, I do.”

“Why?” Harry asks. He tucks his hand into the space between the small of Louis’ back and the chair, holding on.

“My mum’s best friend – Ellen – she had cancer. Like five years ago, maybe, the doctors told her she only had a year or less to live. She’s still here, so.” Louis shrugs, resting his face against Harry’s arm. “Doctors can be wrong—and if your mum’s as good a fighter as you are, she’ll _definitely_ wake up.”

Harry doesn’t even see it coming, doesn’t even notice the tears until Louis asks dubiously, “Are you crying?”

“No,” he says quickly, except he completely is, he can feel his shoulders shaking and his cheeks wet with it.

“You really are,” Louis says kindly, wiping at the tears with his thumbs.

Harry closes his eyes and waits for it all to stop. It doesn’t stop though, so he curls up and buries his face into Louis’ jumper and just _clings,_ trying to stop his body from shaking. He feels Louis’ hands slide around his back to hold him closer, one of them trailing up to card comfortingly through his hair.

Harry keeps crying until he can’t anymore, and he mumbles a small, “Sorry,” into Louis’ shoulder.

“Shut up,” Louis says, pushing Harry back a bit and looking up at him, “it’s _fine_.”

“I don’t really do this a lot,” Harry says, wiping the last of the tears away.

Louis smiles sympathetically, rubbing little circles on Harry’s back. “Maybe we should’ve collected your tears and put them on display in, like, a jam jar or something.”

Harry breathes out a little laugh and then leans down and kisses Louis softly. When he pulls back he can’t help but stare a little bit, and Louis tilts his head curiously and says, “What?”

“Nothing, just. She‘d love you, you know,” Harry says, shrugging. “My mum, I mean. She’d love you.”

Louis smiles and says, “Hope so,” and then pulls Harry back against him and tells Harry’s mum all about their first night in the bungalow and how terrified they all were of a _cow_ , and Harry settles down, breathes out heavily and closes his eyes.

Louis holds onto his hand tightly when Harry leans down to brush the wisps of hair from his mum’s forehead and press a kiss to her skin before they leave. He slides his hand into Harry’s back pocket and holds up the Lucky David Beckham Card. Harry just laughs, taking it off him and slipping it carefully under his mum’s pillow.

Louis says, “See you soon, Anne Harry’s mum,” briefly holding her hand, and then he pulls Harry out of the room with a grin and into a _run_ down the hospital corridors.

“What are you _doing_?” Harry asks breathlessly, ignoring the various members of staff giving them incredibly disapproving looks.

“Running,” Louis says back simply.

Harry smiles, and then he’s running too, and for the first time in his life he feels like he’s running towards something, instead of away from _everything_.

-

Harry takes Louis home and kisses him outside of his front door. He wants to say _I love you_ but the words freeze in his throat, so instead he says, “Thank you.”

-

Harry’s getting awfully tired of waking up to _Here Comes The Sun_ ; he thinks he might have to change it if Gemma’s going to keep insisting on ringing him while he’s _asleep_.

“What now?” Harry asks gruffly into the phone, trying to sit up a bit.

“Mum’s awake. Harry, she’s awake,” Gemma says breathlessly.

Harry freezes up; he stares blurrily at the non-descript blinds and tries to process the words. “What?” he manages finally.

“She’s awake,” Gemma repeats. She sounds ecstatic and also like she’s been crying quite bit. “She’s asking after you.”

Harry blinks and then remembers how to breathe and speak actual words. “Can I—can I see her? Now?”

“Of course you fucking can,” Gemma says happily and slightly like she wants to hit Harry over the head with something to get his brain up and running again. Harry would probably welcome that, honestly.

He sits immobilised for a few seconds, then he’s up and across the room and pulling at clothes hanging out of his bag; he doesn’t even care what’s clean and what’s not, he’s pretty sure his mum won’t give a fuck either.

“I’m on my way,” Harry says, struggling with a pair of jeans. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

Gemma says she will and Harry hangs up. He stands in the middle of the room, one jean-leg half on and the other not, and briefly thinks of Louis and the silly Lucky David Beckham card—Louis would probably call it fate, but it has to just be one of those bizarre coincidences. Harry’s not too big on fate.

He shoves it to the back of his mind, though, and finishes getting ready.

When he gets to the hospital, his mum’s sitting up in bed and sipping water. Her hair is sticking up all over the place and she still looks so _pale_ , but she’s smiling and Harry thinks she looks fucking beautiful.

She catches him hovering by the door with the corner of her eye and very abruptly starts sobbing; Harry almost runs away, but then Gemma’s standing up from their mum’s side and pulling on his hand.

“Harry Edward Styles,” his mum says seriously, taking his hand from Gemma when they’re close enough and dragging him down onto the bed. “If I’d known this is what it’d take to get you to visit, I’d have got myself in a coma much sooner.”

It shouldn’t be funny, it’s _not_ funny at all and Harry tells her so, but she’s smiling; she’s smiling and alive, so Harry laughs anyway and lets her pull him into her arms.

Harry vaguely registers Gemma slipping out at some point, but he doesn’t move, just holds his mum in his arms and doesn’t let go.

They lie there for so long that Harry thinks she might have fallen asleep, but then she brushes her hand weakly through his curls and says carefully, “I could hear you, you know.”

Harry sits up a little bit so he can look at her. He wants to look at her all day just so he can be sure. “Oh?” he manages finally.

“Just little bits and pieces,” Anne says, her hand falling to Harry’s cheek. She studies his face for a while then adds softly, “I heard a lot about a Louis.”

Harry feels his heart leap a bit. “Yeah he’s—a mate.”

Anne gives him a knowing look. “You need to stop running away from everyone, love.”

“I know,” Harry says quietly; he’s just not entirely sure he can. He’s been running from everyone and everything for so long he doesn’t think he even knows _how_ to stop.

“I met him at the psychiatrist’s,” he says slowly.

Anne laughs brightly, coughing a little. “Only you would meet someone special at the _psychiatrist’s_.”

Harry sighs. “I think I need to leave, mum.”

She stares at him sadly like she knew it was coming before he did, and it hurts more than Harry lets show.

“You _think_ you do,” Anne says carefully.

“I think I love him,” Harry says, and there it is. Out loud and _terrifying_. He curls in on himself a bit and closes his eyes and listens to the calming in and out of his mum’s level breathing. “And I don’t want to fuck it up.”

Anne sighs all _put upon_ , and Harry’s almost offended. “More bloody faith in yourself, that’s what you need, Mister,” she says sternly, “And a good clip around the head.”

Harry laughs, but it comes out more distressed than anything else. “What if I just go home for a bit and sort myself out?”

“You could,” Anne agrees, “but it doesn’t matter what I tell you, honey. You’ll do what you think is best anyway. Just don’t be using me as an excuse to leave and run away.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, but doesn’t say anything, and eventually Anne huffs indignantly and says, “Are you going to tell me about him, then?”

So Harry does. He talks until they’re both exhausted and drifting off, and when the nurse comes to wake Harry and tell him that visiting hours are nearly over, he asks for a pen and paper and writes a little note, tucking it beneath her pillow with the card.

-

Harry’s halfway through packing his things and in the middle of sending a text to Nick when Liam appears in the doorway.

“My mum woke up,” he says, not taking his eyes away from the phone. He finishes the text with: _see you soon_ and the weird little prawn emoticon because he’s formed a slight attachment to it, then locks his phone.

“I know. Gemma told me,” Liam says slowly. He looks carefully around the room, at Harry’s half-packed bag and the laptop with booking confirmation for the train tickets and sighs heavily.

“Oh, right,” Harry says, busying himself with throwing more clothes into his bag – he’s given up on folding at this point.

Liam wanders across the room and sits down on the bed, his serious face on. “Louis’ in love with you, you know,” he says softly.

Harry stops mid-packing a pair of shoes, dropping them to the floor and trying to ignore the way it feels like someone’s standing on his chest. “Did he tell you that?” he asks carefully. “Because he lies a lot.”

Liam shakes his head. “He didn’t tell me that, he doesn’t need to.”

“Oh okay, _Liam the Wise_ ,” Harry says, rolling his eyes and packing the shoes.

Liam sighs again; Harry really wishes he’d stop doing that. “You’re in love with him, too,” he says, passing Harry a t-shirt that had been lying on the bed.

Harry frowns and meets his eyes briefly, and there must be something awfully _declaring_ in his expression, because Liam gives him a look like, _there, see_. “I don’t even know him,” Harry says, sitting down on the floor, “we only met, like, a month ago.”

“Zayn and Niall had known each other two weeks when they decided they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together.”

Harry huffs. “Yeah but, like, they’re _Zayn and Niall_.”

“And me,” Liam adds.

“And you,” Harry agrees, smiling. “How’d that happen exactly? You still haven’t _told me_.”

Liam shakes his head, looking a bit despairing. “You’re changing the subject, Haz.”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them again Liam’s staring at him with what looks awfully like pity. Harry’s had quite enough of pity. “I can’t stay here,” he says with as much certainty he can muster.

“No, you _won’t_ stay here,” Liam argues.

“Well it doesn’t matter either way,” Harry says, trying to zip up his bag – he’s not completely sure how it all fit _on the way_ but won’t on the way back.

Liam looks at him sadly and then he’s crouching down on the floor and pulling him into his arms. Harry breathes heavily into it and says, “I’m sorry.”

Liam just says, “I know,” and pulls back to look at him. “Don’t leave him without saying goodbye, though. It’s not fair.”

Harry nods and then buries his face into Liam’s shoulder and cries and cries until there’s nothing left.

-

Harry stands outside Louis’ front door and feels a lot like he might throw up.

“Hey,” Louis says when he answers; he looks sleepy and happy and he leans up a little and presses a soft kiss to Harry’s lips. “Do you want to come in?”

“No, I’m not staying long,” Harry says, shaking his head and trying to remember that breathing is necessary to live. “My mum’s awake.”

“Holy shit,” Louis exclaims, his eyes going wide before he beams and pulls Harry into a tight hug. “That’s brilliant.”

“Yeah,” Harry manages, untangling himself from Louis’ arms and leaning back.

“Oh, right,” Louis says; there’s hurt in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and Harry realises with a little horrible jolt that he _knows_ —that maybe he’s always known. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“Lou—”

“Are you coming back?” Louis interrupts, wrapping his arms around himself. Harry can see every little defence building up and he wants to lean forward and knock them all down, but he can’t.

“I think so,” he says, trying a smile. “This isn’t permanent, Lou.”

“You don’t need to _leave_ ,” Louis insists. “I know we’re fucked up, alright? But we can work that out. We can.”

Harry closes his eyes tight and leans his head against Louis’ neck. “I just need a bit of time,” he mumbles.

“I need _you_ ,” Louis says quietly, wrapping his arms around him and just holding him there. Harry doesn’t even try to move away.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says desperately. “If I go for a bit and figure things out, then I might not mess it up when I come back.”

Louis shakes his head exasperatedly, drawing back a touch. “That doesn’t even make fucking _sense_ , Harry.”

“It does,” Harry argues. “You’re way too important.”

Louis deflates a bit at that. “Don’t go,” he says, quiet and pleading and clawing horribly at Harry’s heart. “Please.”

“I’m coming back,” Harry says firmly.

“Okay,” Louis says. Harry’s not sure Louis even believes him – he’s not sure he even believes _himself_ – but he ignores his resigned tone and kisses him slow and real and pours just about everything into it so maybe they can _both_ believe him.

-

The train journey feels considerably longer on the way back than it had on the way there, and Harry all but crashes when he gets back to his and Nick’s flat in London. He wants to call the flat home – it _is_ – but his brain is so entirely confused that he doesn’t even know where he considers home anymore. When he thinks of home, he thinks of Louis, and if that isn’t a kick to the fucking chest Harry’s not sure what is.

Nick’s not home when he gets there, so he wanders aimlessly around the flat for a while, familiarising himself. It feels like much longer than a month he’s been away. Eventually, Harry stops long enough to flick the kettle on and find a quiet indie film on Netflix to put on. He falls asleep miserably on the sofa, only waking to move to his bed when the film’s halfway through for a second time—he thinks it might have been one of those sad, romantic indie-types, though, so it’s probably best he missed it all.

He manages to pull half his clothes off before falling into his bed and sleeping for _fifteen_ hours.

-

Harry spends the next few days sleeping, too. Nick comes in every now and then to drag him to the living room and watch something on telly, or make him cook them some tea because apparently he had to live off _takeaways_ while Harry was gone and he’s piling on the pounds because of it.

Harry’s not sure how that’s _his_ responsibility, but he cooks anyway because it’s a decent distraction from how horribly miserable he is and also he’s a pretty great friend—to Nick, anyway.

On day five of Harry’s slow breakdown, Nick starts to get less mocking and more concerned. He drags Harry out of bed at seven pm and tells him to get dressed, so Harry does. They end up out drinking with far too many people to keep track of and Harry gets horrifically drunk and cries on Nick’s shoulder about Louis for approximately two hours.

On day eight, Nick invites Caroline over for hungover breakfast and she spends the entire time patting Harry’s leg sympathetically and telling him he’s a bit of an idiot—it’s strangely comforting, though, so Harry doesn’t complain.

On day ten Nick’s at work, so he sends Henry and Pix around to drag Harry out for a liquid-lunch. Harry doesn’t get quite as drunk this time but still enough to babble miserably about Louis.

On day thirteen, they get drunk with Aimee in the flat and Harry only doesn’t cry about Louis all night because he spends most of it with his head down the toilet.

After two quite miserable weeks, Harry suspects it’s probably time to admit that he’s a bit of a mess.

Nick just looks at him in a sort of half-despairing and half-amused manner, sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed and handing him a glass of water. “You are a bit, love, yeah.”

“What do think I should do?” Harry asks, sipping on his water. It feels like heaven on his horrible, raw throat.

Nick sighs and picks up Harry’s phone. He settles down by Harry’s side and Harry watches as he dials Louis’ number. He waits for him to pick up before handing the phone over to Harry wordlessly.

Harry puts it to his ear and before he can even say hello, Louis’ says seriously, “I don’t blame you. For choosing Caroline.”

He sounds a bit like he’s sniffling. Harry’s entirely confused, and he opens his mouth to maybe ask what on earth Louis’ _talking_ about when Louis adds: “It’s alright. She’s a safer bet really, not a bit mental.”

“I didn’t choose Caroline,” Harry says blankly. He looks around for Nick to help him or something, but apparently he’s vacated the room – _tosser_.

“Oh, so you’re not back on then,” Louis says curiously. “ _Heat Magazine_ said—”

Harry bursts out a little hysterical laugh. “ _Heat Magazine_ lies, Lou, your mum really needs to cancel her subscription.”

Louis laughs too, and Harry suddenly feels like someone’s ripped out his lungs. “I don’t think she has one of those,” Louis says, still laughing. “I think she actually goes out to buy it. Maybe that’s worse.”

“Maybe,” Harry manages shakily. He didn’t think just hearing his bloody _voice_ would be this hard.

There’s a long, contemplative silence, then Louis says, “Maybe you and Caroline should give it another shot, though.”

“Lou, what—”

“I just want you to be happy,” Louis cuts in sadly. “Even if it’s not with me. I really, really want it be with me though.”

Harry shuts his eyes and tries to ignore the considerable part of him telling him to just be fucking happy—because he knows that he can be with Louis, that it’s the only place he _can_ be. But he wants to be okay enough to not fuck it all up, because he’s awfully good at doing that.

“I’m just trying to—”

“Find yourself and all that, yeah,” Louis finishes calmly. “I know. Sorry, I just miss you. Your mum does, too.”

“My _mum_?” Harry asks, surprised.

“Yeah, I went to visit her. She’s lovely.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he breathes out, “I miss you, too,” and then gathers up all his strength to hang up.

-

Harry spends approximately another three hours moping. Nick makes him copious amounts of tea and even sits down and watches a horrifically boring cooking show with him, narrating it sarcastically in an attempt to cheer him up.

It gets to an awful point where he’s pining so much that even Nick doesn’t know what the hell to do with him anymore. Eventually Nick just drags him to bed and lets Harry snuggle with him for a bit while he mumbles about how ridiculous and insufferable Harry is. Harry opens his mouth to shut him up with some kind of reprimand but what spills out instead is _Louis_ and everything Harry’s been actively trying to _forget_.

Nick listens quietly and doesn’t even mock – well, okay, he does, but only once and possibly because Harry used the words _stupidly_ and _in love_ in the same sentence so he probably should have expected it.

Nick falls asleep at some point when Harry’s calling himself an idiot for probably the fifth time; Harry can’t even wake him up and tell him off because it’s horribly late and Nick has a Breakfast Show to host. So he lets him sleep.

Harry tosses and turns for an hour or so before he gives up on sleep altogether because every time he closes his eyes all he can see is Louis’ sad face and—fuck, how could he be such an _idiot_? He sits upright in bed and pushes his hands against his eyes; he’s exhausted, but it’s the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t _let_ him sleep.

He wanders through to the living room intending to watch another awful cooking show and take the piss out of the terrible contestants, when one of Nick’s guitars – that he never actually uses because he can’t even _play_ – catches his eye, and—well, watching terrible cooking shows without Nick isn’t much fun anyway. He stares at it for a long moment before picking it up, considering.

Then he calls Liam.

“It’s late,” Liam answers sleepily, but not like he’s actually been asleep, so Harry doesn’t feel that bad.

“I know. Sorry, mate. I need a favour,” Harry says quietly.

He hears the whirring of the kettle in the background before Liam says, “Okay.”

“I’ve been a twat,” Harry says miserably, then: “Can you still play piano?”

“You have,” Liam agrees, but it sounds kind of fond and sympathetic, like he’s mentally patting Harry’s head. “And yeah, I do.”

“If I send you something would you be able to record it for me tonight?” Harry asks hopefully.

Liam’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Is this about Louis?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes.

“Okay. Just email it.”

If Harry could reach him he’d probably kiss Liam right now. He tells him so, and Liam laughs and says, “Yeah, mate, don’t. We tried that once, remember?”

Harry laughs too and then he’s rushing out, “Thank you,” on a loop and Liam’s telling him to hush or he _won’t_ do it. Harry knows he will though—because he’s _Liam_.

“By the way, Zayn and Niall are bit cross you didn’t say goodbye,” Liam adds.

Harry sighs. “I’m sorry. Tell them I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “Wait—I’ll tell them myself when I come back.”

“You’re coming back?” Liam asks dubiously.

Harry nods against the phone, taking a breath. “Yeah, I hope so.”

“Good,” Liam says quietly. “I’ll go and record this then, shall I?”

“Thanks. I love you,” Harry says, and then hangs up and looks up the lyrics for _Look After You_ , just in case he needs them.

-

Harry doesn’t sleep until four am and when he wakes up just after six, Nick’s gone already.

He panics for a moment before belatedly remembering the invention of _phones_ and lets out a calm breath before getting up and going through to the kitchen and flicking the kettle on.

He makes tea and listens to the recording once more – he’s entirely sick of his own sodding voice, to be honest – before he calls Nick.

This is, by far, the lamest thing Harry has ever done, and Nick is probably going to take the piss for the rest of his life—Harry wouldn’t even blame him, honestly.

“What can I do for you at six-twenty in the morning, young Harold?” Nick answers, his voice still full of sleep. “Did you even sleep?”

“Oh good, you’re at work,” Harry breathes thankfully, then adds: “A bit.”

“Of course I’m bloody at work,” Nick snaps fondly. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but I’m the world renowned host of the _Radio 1 Breakfast Show_.”

“Might have heard about it, yeah,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “Any chance I could ask for a favour relating to your very famous Breakfast Show?”

“We’re not doing karaoke again, Harold, we’ve been over this; Finchy says it’s not appropriate for the morning slot. Plus, you’re not good enough, and your terrible voice drowns out my very wonderful one.”

Harry huffs and says impatiently, “Shut up, you arse. This is a serious favour!”

“I take my karaoke _very_ seriously.” Harry makes a frustrated sound and Nick laughs hard and says, “Okay, okay, I’m terribly sorry. What do you need? Be snappy, I’m on in five.”

“Just, try not to laugh until I’m done explaining, okay?”

Nick laughs after approximately five seconds and mostly _continues_ laughing until Harry’s done talking. Harry twists his face into an angry frown at the phone and says, “This is _serious_ , Nicholas.”

Nick quietens down a little. “I know, love,” he says softly. “Email it to Finchy, yeah?”

“Thanks,” Harry breathes out, his hand shaking the phone.

“No problem. I hope it works so I can mock you for _forever_.”

“Twat,” Harry says fondly, then hangs up.

Nick texts him within half an hour with just: _We’re playing it at eight! You owe me many cheap cocktails… and a dog. :) xxxx_

Harry boils the kettle again and then again and again. He has coffee, tea, and even makes himself a hot chocolate to kill the time. He listens to Nick’s show while he waits but is far too distracted to focus, particularly when Nick keeps talking about a _special surprise_ from one of his friends at eight and he can hear Finchy making crude remarks in the background. Harry would be amused if he didn’t feel awfully like he might throw up everywhere.

Eventually it hits five to eight, and Harry texts Louis – three times just in case he’s asleep – to _Put Radio 1 on, there’s something on for you. Xx_

“Alright,” Nick’s voice says from the radio, and Harry inhales a deep breath, “my good friend Harry Styles who does a bit of singing sometimes – buy his EP if you want, it’s on iTunes, other music stores are available.”

Harry laughs, rolling his eyes stupidly at the radio.

“Anyway, the Styles has recorded a bit of a special thing for someone and I said I’d play it because I am probably the _greatest friend_ anyone could ever have, like ever. So Louis Tomlinson, I think this one might be for you,” Nick pauses for moment, then adds, “I’m going to make fun of you forever for this, Harold.”

Harry hears his own voice then, introducing it and making sure he added the _featuring Liam Payne on piano_ – because Liam had insisted – before the song plays. He turns the radio off then, because he’s heard it quite enough times now and if he has to hear it again at the same time Louis’ hearing it (hopefully), he probably _will_ throw up. A lot.

When he turns the radio back on he hears Nick telling Louis that Harry’s been completely _miserable_ since he came home and he can’t cope with it anymore; he laughs and turns it down so it’s almost inaudible then wanders back through to living room to collapse tiredly on the sofa.

He stares at his phone for a long while, not even sure what he’s really expecting. He’s just closing his eyes and nodding off when a text from Louis comes through. It’s just two words long, but it’s the best text Harry’s ever received.

_Come home. xxxx_

-

“This is beginning to become a bit of a regular thing,” Nick says, standing on one of many King’s Cross stations with Harry and staring up at the board counting down to the train arrival.

Harry just smiles, leaning into him.

Nick sighs exaggeratedly, then pouts. “This is awful. I’m going to have to get a new friend-with-benefits. Why’d you have to go fall in love? Can’t leave you alone for five bloody minutes.”

Harry rolls his eyes and laughs. “I’m sure you’ll find one, or ten,” he says, grinning. “There’s always Finchy.”

Nick looks absolutely scandalised, shaking his head. “Finchy and I are far too married to be friends-with-benefits. Plus, he secretly hates me.”

“He really doesn’t,” Harry says—he’s sure they’ve had this conversation before.

“He never lets me play any of the music I want.”

“Because he doesn’t want you to get _fired_ ,” Harry replies monotonously. They’ve definitely had this conversation before.

“Always complains about having to work with me,” Nick argues.

“Like he’d ever work with anyone else.”

Nick frowns, thinking, then exclaims, “Steals my jumpers!”

Harry shrugs. “Because they smell of you.”

“That’s… really creepy, isn’t it?” Nick asks, twisting his face confusedly.

“I think it’s sweet,” Harry tells him seriously, trying to keep his face straight.

“Well, you bloody would,” Nick snaps.

Harry shakes his head in despair. Nick’s a bit of an idiot, really. “He spent two months on your sofa after he broke up with _whatshername_ ,” he says. “He has plenty of other friends, you know. But he came to you.”

“Well, we work together,” Nick says plaintively. “He probably chose me out of fucking _convenience_.”

Harry barks out a laugh. “Aw, you have the emotional range of a teaspoon, mate.”

Nick throws him a sour look. “Oh, haha,” he quips. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

“Not very, I stole it from Harry Potter,” Harry says, then: “This is my train.”

“You could have got away with that, I still haven’t seen Harry Potter,” Nick says, then he’s pulling Harry into a tight, enveloping hug and Harry can barely breathe.

When he pulls back he presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek and Harry says, “I’ll force you to watch every Harry Potter when I’m next here.”

Nick grimaces. “Yay,” he says deadpan, then hugs Harry briefly again. “Bring Louis.”

Harry just grins and says, “Ask Finchy out,” before getting on his train. He can vaguely see Nick stick his middle finger up at him through the train window.

-

This time, there’s someone waiting to meet Harry at the train station.

Louis’ standing on the platform scanning the train nervously, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. Harry has to try terribly hard not to push the people in front of him out of the way and leap dramatically off the train and turn this into some sort of horrific _romcom_.

It feels like it takes something incredibly close to a _decade_ for Harry to fight his way through the crowd, and when he finally does he very nearly falls on Louis in an attempt to hug him.

“This is bloody insane,” he mumbles into Louis’ shoulder, closing his eyes and just breathing him in.

Louis laughs happily and curls his arms tightly around Harry’s neck. “Yeah, completely. But so are we,” he points out.

Harry doesn’t even care anymore; he doesn’t care if it’s crazy and stupid that he wants to spend the rest of his fucking life with Louis. Louis who he met a month ago in a psychiatrist’s waiting room. He wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything—and maybe he will fuck it up, but he wants to believe that he won’t because _Louis_ believes it.

“Sorry about the radio thing,” he says when they pull apart a bit so they can breathe and properly look at each other. “I just wanted to do something. Make a stupid grand gesture or something, I don’t even know. I know it was a bit shit and cheesy.”

Louis hushes him with a kiss and Harry forgets completely what he was saying, melting into it; they kiss until they’re breathless and gasping, and have to part to breathe a little.

“As grand gestures go, I think that was one of the grandest,” Louis mumbles, his fingers curling around Harry’s arms. “My mum _cried_.”

Harry laughs. “Sometimes I think she’s more invested in this relationship than we are.”

Louis looks hopeful. “Relationship,” he repeats.

“I mean, if you _want_ ,” Harry says frantically. “Like, you don’t have to—”

“I sort of cried a bit too,” Louis cuts in. “Was cleaning a hamster cage at the time though, so let’s just blame the sawdust.”

Harry stares for a long moment and then says without much preamble, “I love you.” He very nearly trips over the words, but he carries on because he’s not sure he can stop now. “I shouldn’t have left. The whole finding myself and working things out bollocks and stuff—it’s a really awful idea. I don’t even know what I—”

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis says softly.

Harry takes a breath. “Louis, I don’t want safe. I want _you_. I stopped taking my meds because I wanted to feel, and I _did_. I am so in love with you.”

“I love you, too,” Louis breathes. “You total fucking twat.”

Harry prods him in the arm. “I’m still a mess, though.”

Louis just shrugs. “So am I,” he says. “It’s alright, we can work it out together.”

“Yeah?”

Louis nods. “We have to. We can’t _not_ try. Now shhhhh so we can go back to the kissing.”

Harry shuts his mouth and only opens it again when Louis’ kissing him hard and a bit frantic, and Harry doesn’t give a shit that they’re right in the middle of a busy train station, just kisses him back and matches him every step of the way.

-

_Two weeks later_

Harry stares at the Christmas tree a bit, tilting his head and squinting his eyes.

“You can’t put that bauble there,” he says, frowning.

Louis stops mid-hooking the glittery red bauble to the tree, his hand hovering by the branch. He levels Harry with a confused look. “Why not?”

Harry rolls his eyes and then splutters, “ _Because_.”

The corners of Louis’ mouth turn up into a small, amused smile, and he jumps down from the stool he’d been using to reach the higher branches and stands puzzled in front of Harry.

“Because…?” he asks, leaning forward curiously into Harry’s space.

There’s little specks of red and gold glitter in Louis’ hair and Harry’s distracted for a moment, he almost brushes it out but stops himself. “You look like Christmas,” he quips.

“Because I look like Christmas?” Louis laughs, his eyes sparkling in the Christmas lights.

“ _No_. You can’t put it there because it’s too close to that ugly reindeer,” Harry replies slowly, leaning around Louis and pointing to the little, ugly reindeer head. “And there’s another red glittery bauble right fucking underneath.”

Louis follows Harry’s line of vision and rolls his eyes a little, shaking his head. “I was going to invite you ‘round mine to help put our tree up, but now I’m reconsidering,” he teases.

Harry huffs. “Shut _up_ , alright. I get a bit OCD about this.”

Louis just laughs and then trails his fingertips over Harry’s cheek and up into his hair and leans in to press a slow kiss to his lips.

When he pulls back, he says gleefully, “You have glitter in your hair.”

“So do you,” Harry points out, mussing at Louis’ fringe a little.

Louis smiles and hands Harry the red bauble. “You do it, since I apparently can’t do it right. I’ll make us hot chocolate.”

Harry continues decorating the tree for another ten minutes before he realises Louis still hasn’t returned with the hot chocolate. He frowns and steps down from the stool—why does his mum insist on having giant trees?—and goes in search of him.

He stops dead when he gets into the hallway, peering up; most of the ceiling is covered in mistletoe. Harry’s not really sure whether to laugh or be alarmed.

“Lou, did you cover the _entire house_ in mistletoe?” he asks, wandering through to the kitchen—it’s all over the kitchen ceiling, too.

“I might have,” Louis says; he turns around from where he’d been making hot chocolate and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and back down to Harry. Harry gets there first, though, laughing a little and then leaning down to press a soft kiss to Louis’ lips. He can feel Louis smile.

“You don’t need an excuse to kiss me,” Harry points out when he pulls away.

“No,” Louis agrees, “but now I don’t ever have to _stop_ kissing you.”

Harry looks up at all of the mistletoe; there is an awful lot really.

“It might take us about half an hour to get back to the living room if we don’t leave separately,” Louis continues with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Harry laughs, backing Louis’ up against the kitchen counter, and says fondly, “I love you.”

Louis gets about halfway through, “I love you, too,” before Harry kisses him again.

-

Harry’s very nearly falling asleep against Louis, semi-clothed on the sofa, when he realises with a jolt that his mum is coming home in less than an _hour_. He sits up a little too fast and Louis yelps a bit out of shock.

“We need to finish the tree,” Harry says.

Louis just grabs his arm and pulls him back down, snuggling into his chest. “Looks fine,” he mumbles.

“And take some of that mistletoe down,” Harry adds, trying to sit up again.

Louis groans, keeping a tight hold. “In a minute.”

Harry sighs, admitting defeat and settling back, and then his phone buzzes with a text and Louis yells, “Go _away_ ,” and pulls the blanket they have loosely over them so it’s completely over their heads.

“I should check that,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to Louis’ shoulder. “It could be Gem, or mum.”

Louis sighs but relents and lets Harry lean over the edge of the sofa and grab his phone from where it had apparently ended up on the floor. It isn’t his mum or Gemma, though, it’s Nick.

_Finchy just asked if I want to go to the pictures with him!!?? xx_

Harry just rolls his eyes in despair.

 _You go to the pictures all the time xx_

He locks his phone and is just setting it back down when it buzzes six consecutive times. Louis makes a noise of great disapproval but opens his eyes curiously.

_He said JUST THE TWO OF US_  
 _Is this a date???_  
 _Does he think this is a date???_  
 _Am I supposed to think this is a date???_  
 _I’m bloody hopeless at this_  
 _HAROLD_

Louis peers over Harry’s shoulder, eyes scanning over the texts, and then lunges forward and grabs the phone from his hands.

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry says, trying to grab it back.

Louis just waves his hand in a sort of _I’ve got this_ gesture and Harry rolls his eyes and giggles. He grabs him by the waist instead and pulls him back down, and Louis sighs happily, lying back against Harry’s chest.

“There we go, all sorted,” he says, handing Harry back the phone with a stupid smile on his face a moment later.

Harry reads over the reply.

_It’s definitely definitely definitely a date !!_  
 _Buy him flowers_  
 _Oh or make him a mixtape !_  
 _And hold his hand_  
 _A lot_  
 _Maybe tell him he resembles an angel :)_

“You’re such a twat,” Harry says fondly, locking his phone and trying not to laugh too much. Nick will know it’s not him anyway. “And _you’ve_ never made _me_ a mixtape.”

Louis grins, pushing at his shoulder. “That’s more your thing, really. You hipster music snob.”

Harry’s phone buzzes.

_Harold, tell your boyfriend he’s a twat. :) xx_

Harry rolls his eyes and turns the screen towards Louis. Louis laughs—the kind of laugh where he throws his head back and his eyes get all crinkly and _ridiculous_ , and Harry has to bite his lip so he doesn’t grin too hard like the fucking _lovedrunk_ fool he clearly is.

“Tell him I’m your twat, or—wait no, I will,” Louis says when he’s stopped giggling, taking Harry’s phone from him and typing.

Harry extends his hand for it back when Louis’ done but Louis just grins and locks it; he rests it on the arm of the sofa and then all but crawls on top of Harry, manoeuvring himself until he fits perfectly by his side.

“So what do you want for Christmas?” he asks quietly, tangling their fingers together.

Harry shrugs, because he can’t think of anything he wants really. Eventually he settles on, “You.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You _have_ me. What else do you want?”

“You is fine,” he says.

“Okay,” Louis replies, giggling slightly, “I’ll wrap myself up for you, how about that?”

Harry bursts out a little laugh. “Kinky,” he says, grinning cheekily. “With a bow on your dick?”

Louis just prods him in the side and leans over to kiss him in reply.

Harry smiles into it; he pulls back a little and stares for a moment, then sighs and takes a breath and says, “I want you to come to London with me.”

Louis frowns. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “not, like, permanently or anything. But if I want to keep doing the music thing, I’ll probably need to be there sometimes. And I have friends there, I want you to meet them properly.”

Louis looks considering for a moment. “Can I sit in the studio with you when you’re recording and pull stupid faces?”

Harry laughs, pressing his face against Louis’ neck. “If you want,” he mumbles. “Might let you record some vocals too.”

“Ha, not sure about that,” Louis says, his voice vibrating against Harry’s cheek.

“Is that a yes, though? You’ll come to London?” he asks quietly.

Louis curls his fingers gently into Harry’s shoulder, pushing him back a little to look at him. His expression is thoughtful but his eyes are smiling and Harry already knows the answer.

“Yeah,” Louis says eventually, his voice softer, “I’ll come to London with you.”

Harry kisses him, smiling, then asks, “What about New Year?”

Louis shrugs and buries his face in Harry’s neck. “As long as I get to kiss you at midnight, I don’t care where we are,” he breathes.

Harry grins and closes his eyes; they’ll get up in a minute or two.

-


End file.
